In 1911 begon Laura Ingalls Wilder een samenwerking met the Missouri Ruralist, die meer dan 12 jaar zou duren.
Nadat John Case, de redacteur van de Missouri Ruralist had gehoord van een door Laura Ingalls Wilder geschreven artikel, nodigde hij uit om diverse artikels te schrijven die gepubliceerd zouden worden.
Laura schreef over dingen waar zij verstand van had: boerderijdingen, dingen uit het dagelijkse leven, dingen uit het nieuws, en over haar eigen gezin en familie.
Nadat zij haar dochter (Rose Wilder Lane) in 1915 in San Francisco had bezocht, droeg Laura vaker columns bij en in 1917 werd ze de vaste columnist van de Farm Home Section/de afdeling Boerderijzaken.
Hieronder wil ik jullie graag een aantal columns laten lezen die Laura dus vanaf 1911 voor de Plattelandskrant schreef.
The Missouri Ruralist/De Plattelandskrant van Missouri
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Before Santa Claus Came
Mrs. A. J. Wilder. Mansfield, Mo.
Hundreds of years ago when our pagan ancestors lived in the great forests of Europe and worshipped the sun, they celebrated Christmas in a somewhat different fashion than we do today.
The sun, they thought, was the giver of all good. He warmed and lighted the earth. He caused the grass to grow for their flocks and herds to eat and the fruits and grains for their own food, but every year after harvest time he became angry with them and started to go away, withdrawing his warmth and light farther and still farther from them. The days when he showed them his face became shorter and shorter and the periods of darkness ever longer. The farther away he went the colder it grew. The waters turned to ice and snow fell in place of the gentle summer showers.
If their god indeed left them as he seemed to be doing, if he would not become reconciled to them, they must all perish, for nothing would grow upon which they could live and if they did not freeze they would die of hunger. Their priests' demanded a human sacrifice, the sacrifice of a child!
What is now our Christmas eve was the night chosen for the ceremony. On that night the door of every hut in the village must be left unfastened that the priests might enter and take the child. No one knew which house would be entered nor what child taken to be sacrificed on the altar of the Sun God.
Perhaps the priests knew that the shortest day of the year had arrived and that the sun would start on its return journey at this time. They may have taken advantage of this knowledge to gain greater control over the people, but it may be that the selection of the right day at first was purely accidental and they believed, with the people, that the Sun God was pleased by the sacrifice. It was, to them, proof of this that he immediately started to return and smiled upon them for another season.
Do you suppose the children knew and listened in terror for the footsteps on Christmas eve? The fathers and mothers must have harkened for the slightest noise and waited in agony, not knowing whether their house would be passed by or whether the priests would enter stealthily and bear away one of their children or perhaps their only child. How happy they must have been when the teachers of Christianity came and told them it was all unnecassary. It is no wonder they celebrated the birth of Christ on the date of that awful night of sacrifice, which was now robbed of its terror, nor that they made it a children's festival.
Instead of the stealth steps of cruel men, there came now, on Christmas eve, a jolly saint with reindeer and bells, bringing gifts. This new spirit of love and peace and safety that was abroad in the land did not require that the doors be left unbarred. He could come thru locked doors or down the chimney and be everywhere at once on Christmas night, vor a spirit can do such things. No wonder the people laughed and danced and rant the joy bells on Christmas day and the celebration with its joy and thankfulness has come on down the years to us. Without all that Christmas means, we might still be dreading the day in the old terrible way instead of listening for the sleigh bells of Santa Claus.
Voordat de Kerstman kwam.
Honderden jaren geleden, toen onze heidense voorouders in de grote bossen van Europa leefden en de zon aanbaden, vierden zij Kerstmis op een andere manier dan wij tegenwoordig doen.
De Zon, zo dachten zij, was de schenker van al het goede. Hij verwarmde en verlichtte de aarde. Hij liet het gras groeien zodat hun vee kon grazen en zij voor eigen gebruik fruit en granen verkregen. Maar ieder jaar na de oogsttijd werd de Zon boos op hen en begon te verdwijnen, zijn warmte en licht steeds verder en verder van hen terugtrekkend. De dagen dat Hij zijn gezicht liet zien werden korter en korter en de donkere periodes werden steeds langer. Hoe meer de Zon verdween, hoe kouder het werd. Het water veranderde in ijs en er viel sneeuw in plaats van de zachte zomerse regenbuien.
Als hun god hen inderdaad verliet zoals hij scheen te doen, als hij niet met hen verzoend kon worden zouden ze allemaal sterven, want er zou niets meer groeien waardoor ze eten zouden hebben en als ze niet zouden bevriezen, zouden ze van de honger omkomen. Hun priesters eisten een mensenoffer, er zou een kind geofferd moeten worden!
Wat nu onze kerstavond is, was toen de avond die uitgekozen was voor de ceremonie. Op die avond moesten de deuren van de hutten in het dorp open blijven, zodat de priesters naar binnen konden komen en een kind konden pakken. Niemand wist in welk huis ze binnen zouden komen, noch welk kind meegenomen zou worden om geofferd te worden op het altaar van de Zonnegod.
Misschien wisten de priesters dat de kortste dag van het jaar aangebroken was en dat de dagen hierna weer zouden gaan lengen. Ze zouden hun voordeel hebben kunnen halen met deze voorkennis opdat ze grotere macht over de mensen verkregen, maar het zou ook kunnen zijn dat het kiezen van de juiste dag in het begin puur toevallig gebeurde, en zij geloofden, evenals de dorpelingen, dat het offer de Zonnegod behaagde. Het was voor hen het bewijs dat Hij onmiddellijk zou terugkeren en weer zou gaan schijnen. Er zou een nieuw seizoen aanbreken.
Denk jij dat de kinderen het wisten en in angst luisterden of ze op kerstavond voetstappen hoorden? De vaders en moeders luisterden in ieder geval naar het kleinste geluidje en wachten in doodsangst, niet wetend of er aan hun huis geen aandacht besteed zou worden of dat de priesters heimelijk zouden binnenkomen en één van hun kinderen zouden wegdragen of misschien wel hun enige kind. Wat zullen zij gelukkig zijn geweest toen de christelijke monniken arriveerden en hen vertelden dat dit allemaal onnodig was. Geen wonder dat zij de geboorte van Jezus Christus vierden op de datum van die vreselijke avond dat er geofferd moest worden, die nu ontdaan was van zijn verschrikking. Het is ook geen wonder dat het nu een feest voor kinderen werd.
In plaatst van de heimelijke voetstappen van wrede mannen kwam er nu op kerstavond een vrolijke Sint met rendieren en bellen, die cadeaus kwam brengen. Deze nieuwe geest van liefde en vrede en veiligheid die in omloop kwam in het land eiste niet dat de deuren open bleven. Hij kon door deuren komen die op slot waren of door de schoorsteen en kon op kerstavond overal tegelijk zijn, want een geest kan dat soort dingen doen. Geen wonder dat de mensen lachten en dansten en de klokken lieten luiden met Kerstmis en dit feest met al zijn vreugde en dankbaarheid kwam sinds die jaren op gang.
(Dit artikel had Laura Ingalls Wilder voor de Missouri Ruralist / Plattelandskrant van Missouri geschreven en het werd in de editie van 20 december 1916 gepubliceerd.)
Mrs. A. J. Wilder. Mansfield, Mo.
Hundreds of years ago when our pagan ancestors lived in the great forests of Europe and worshipped the sun, they celebrated Christmas in a somewhat different fashion than we do today.
The sun, they thought, was the giver of all good. He warmed and lighted the earth. He caused the grass to grow for their flocks and herds to eat and the fruits and grains for their own food, but every year after harvest time he became angry with them and started to go away, withdrawing his warmth and light farther and still farther from them. The days when he showed them his face became shorter and shorter and the periods of darkness ever longer. The farther away he went the colder it grew. The waters turned to ice and snow fell in place of the gentle summer showers.
If their god indeed left them as he seemed to be doing, if he would not become reconciled to them, they must all perish, for nothing would grow upon which they could live and if they did not freeze they would die of hunger. Their priests' demanded a human sacrifice, the sacrifice of a child!
What is now our Christmas eve was the night chosen for the ceremony. On that night the door of every hut in the village must be left unfastened that the priests might enter and take the child. No one knew which house would be entered nor what child taken to be sacrificed on the altar of the Sun God.
Perhaps the priests knew that the shortest day of the year had arrived and that the sun would start on its return journey at this time. They may have taken advantage of this knowledge to gain greater control over the people, but it may be that the selection of the right day at first was purely accidental and they believed, with the people, that the Sun God was pleased by the sacrifice. It was, to them, proof of this that he immediately started to return and smiled upon them for another season.
Do you suppose the children knew and listened in terror for the footsteps on Christmas eve? The fathers and mothers must have harkened for the slightest noise and waited in agony, not knowing whether their house would be passed by or whether the priests would enter stealthily and bear away one of their children or perhaps their only child. How happy they must have been when the teachers of Christianity came and told them it was all unnecassary. It is no wonder they celebrated the birth of Christ on the date of that awful night of sacrifice, which was now robbed of its terror, nor that they made it a children's festival.
Instead of the stealth steps of cruel men, there came now, on Christmas eve, a jolly saint with reindeer and bells, bringing gifts. This new spirit of love and peace and safety that was abroad in the land did not require that the doors be left unbarred. He could come thru locked doors or down the chimney and be everywhere at once on Christmas night, vor a spirit can do such things. No wonder the people laughed and danced and rant the joy bells on Christmas day and the celebration with its joy and thankfulness has come on down the years to us. Without all that Christmas means, we might still be dreading the day in the old terrible way instead of listening for the sleigh bells of Santa Claus.
Voordat de Kerstman kwam.
Honderden jaren geleden, toen onze heidense voorouders in de grote bossen van Europa leefden en de zon aanbaden, vierden zij Kerstmis op een andere manier dan wij tegenwoordig doen.
De Zon, zo dachten zij, was de schenker van al het goede. Hij verwarmde en verlichtte de aarde. Hij liet het gras groeien zodat hun vee kon grazen en zij voor eigen gebruik fruit en granen verkregen. Maar ieder jaar na de oogsttijd werd de Zon boos op hen en begon te verdwijnen, zijn warmte en licht steeds verder en verder van hen terugtrekkend. De dagen dat Hij zijn gezicht liet zien werden korter en korter en de donkere periodes werden steeds langer. Hoe meer de Zon verdween, hoe kouder het werd. Het water veranderde in ijs en er viel sneeuw in plaats van de zachte zomerse regenbuien.
Als hun god hen inderdaad verliet zoals hij scheen te doen, als hij niet met hen verzoend kon worden zouden ze allemaal sterven, want er zou niets meer groeien waardoor ze eten zouden hebben en als ze niet zouden bevriezen, zouden ze van de honger omkomen. Hun priesters eisten een mensenoffer, er zou een kind geofferd moeten worden!
Wat nu onze kerstavond is, was toen de avond die uitgekozen was voor de ceremonie. Op die avond moesten de deuren van de hutten in het dorp open blijven, zodat de priesters naar binnen konden komen en een kind konden pakken. Niemand wist in welk huis ze binnen zouden komen, noch welk kind meegenomen zou worden om geofferd te worden op het altaar van de Zonnegod.
Misschien wisten de priesters dat de kortste dag van het jaar aangebroken was en dat de dagen hierna weer zouden gaan lengen. Ze zouden hun voordeel hebben kunnen halen met deze voorkennis opdat ze grotere macht over de mensen verkregen, maar het zou ook kunnen zijn dat het kiezen van de juiste dag in het begin puur toevallig gebeurde, en zij geloofden, evenals de dorpelingen, dat het offer de Zonnegod behaagde. Het was voor hen het bewijs dat Hij onmiddellijk zou terugkeren en weer zou gaan schijnen. Er zou een nieuw seizoen aanbreken.
Denk jij dat de kinderen het wisten en in angst luisterden of ze op kerstavond voetstappen hoorden? De vaders en moeders luisterden in ieder geval naar het kleinste geluidje en wachten in doodsangst, niet wetend of er aan hun huis geen aandacht besteed zou worden of dat de priesters heimelijk zouden binnenkomen en één van hun kinderen zouden wegdragen of misschien wel hun enige kind. Wat zullen zij gelukkig zijn geweest toen de christelijke monniken arriveerden en hen vertelden dat dit allemaal onnodig was. Geen wonder dat zij de geboorte van Jezus Christus vierden op de datum van die vreselijke avond dat er geofferd moest worden, die nu ontdaan was van zijn verschrikking. Het is ook geen wonder dat het nu een feest voor kinderen werd.
In plaatst van de heimelijke voetstappen van wrede mannen kwam er nu op kerstavond een vrolijke Sint met rendieren en bellen, die cadeaus kwam brengen. Deze nieuwe geest van liefde en vrede en veiligheid die in omloop kwam in het land eiste niet dat de deuren open bleven. Hij kon door deuren komen die op slot waren of door de schoorsteen en kon op kerstavond overal tegelijk zijn, want een geest kan dat soort dingen doen. Geen wonder dat de mensen lachten en dansten en de klokken lieten luiden met Kerstmis en dit feest met al zijn vreugde en dankbaarheid kwam sinds die jaren op gang.
(Dit artikel had Laura Ingalls Wilder voor de Missouri Ruralist / Plattelandskrant van Missouri geschreven en het werd in de editie van 20 december 1916 gepubliceerd.)
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Dit artikel had LIW gschreven voor de krant van 15 december 1924.
Ze vertelde over de hevige koude en dat ze zo graag naar huis wilde, want ze had erge heimwee, maar omdat het eigenlijk te koud was om te reizen, dacht ze dat pa niet zou komen. Het is echter niet pa die haar komt halen, maar Almanzo!
Dit is het artikel waar we al eerder met zijn allen over gesproken hebben, datgene, waarin Laura toegeeft dat ze 16 was, en niet 15 zoals het in de boeken wordt verteld om het spannender te maken. En nog een onderdeel dat afwijkt van de boeken: in werkelijkheid begon Laura in december 1883 met het lesgeven op de Bouchie/Brewsterschool (voor 2 maanden), terwijl het in de boeken plaatsvindt vanaf januari 1883! Vandaar dat ze in dit artikle speekt over thuis willen zijn met kerstmis.
As a Farm Woman Thinks
by Mrs. A.J. Wilder
1/The snow was scudding low over the drifts of the white world outside the little claim shanty. It was blowing thru the cracks in its walls and forming little piles and miniature drifts on the floor and even on the desks before which several children sat, trying to study, for this abandoned claim shanty that had served as the summer home of a homesteader on the Dakota prairies was being used as a schoolhouse during the winter.
The walls were made of one thickness of wide boards with cracks between and the enormous stove that stood nearly in the center of the one room could scarcely keep out the frost tho its sides were a glowing red. The children were dressed warmly and had been allowed to gather closely around the stove following the advice of the county superintendent of schools, who on a recent visit had said that the only thing he had to say to them was to keep their feet warm.
This was my first school, I’ll not say how many years ago, but I was only 16 years old an 12 miles from home during a frontier winter. I walked a mile over the unbroken snow from my boarding place to school every morning and back at night. There were only a few pupils and on this particular snowy afternoon they were restless for it was nearing 4 o’clock and tomorrow was Christmas. “Teacher” was restless, too, tho she tried not to show it for she was wondering if she could get home for Christmas day.
It was almost too cold to hope for father to come and a storm was hanging in the northwest which might mean a blizzard at any minute. Still, tomorrow was Christmas, and then there was a jingle of sleigh bells outside. A man in a huge fur coat in a sleigh full of robes passed the window. I was going home after all!
When one thinks of 12 miles now, it is in terms of motor cars and means only a few minutes. It was different then, and I’ll never forget that ride. The bells made a merry jingle and the fur robes were warm, but the weather was growing colder and the snow was drifting so that the horses must break their way thru the drifts.
We were facing the strong wind and every little while he who later became “the man of the place,” must stop the team, get out in the snow, and by putting his hands over each horse’s nose in turn, thaw the ice from them where the breath had frozen over their nostrils. Then he would get back into the sleigh and on we’d go until once more the horsed could not breathe, for the ice.
When we reached the journey’s end, it was 40 degrees below zero, the snow was blowing so thickly that we could not see across the street and I was so chilled that I had to be half carried into the house. But I was home for Christmas and cold and danger were forgotten.
Such magic there is in Christmas to draw the absent ones home and if unable to go in the body the thoughts will hover there! Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred and we are better throughout the year for having in spirit, become a child again at Christmas time.
Ze vertelde over de hevige koude en dat ze zo graag naar huis wilde, want ze had erge heimwee, maar omdat het eigenlijk te koud was om te reizen, dacht ze dat pa niet zou komen. Het is echter niet pa die haar komt halen, maar Almanzo!
Dit is het artikel waar we al eerder met zijn allen over gesproken hebben, datgene, waarin Laura toegeeft dat ze 16 was, en niet 15 zoals het in de boeken wordt verteld om het spannender te maken. En nog een onderdeel dat afwijkt van de boeken: in werkelijkheid begon Laura in december 1883 met het lesgeven op de Bouchie/Brewsterschool (voor 2 maanden), terwijl het in de boeken plaatsvindt vanaf januari 1883! Vandaar dat ze in dit artikle speekt over thuis willen zijn met kerstmis.
As a Farm Woman Thinks
by Mrs. A.J. Wilder
1/The snow was scudding low over the drifts of the white world outside the little claim shanty. It was blowing thru the cracks in its walls and forming little piles and miniature drifts on the floor and even on the desks before which several children sat, trying to study, for this abandoned claim shanty that had served as the summer home of a homesteader on the Dakota prairies was being used as a schoolhouse during the winter.
The walls were made of one thickness of wide boards with cracks between and the enormous stove that stood nearly in the center of the one room could scarcely keep out the frost tho its sides were a glowing red. The children were dressed warmly and had been allowed to gather closely around the stove following the advice of the county superintendent of schools, who on a recent visit had said that the only thing he had to say to them was to keep their feet warm.
This was my first school, I’ll not say how many years ago, but I was only 16 years old an 12 miles from home during a frontier winter. I walked a mile over the unbroken snow from my boarding place to school every morning and back at night. There were only a few pupils and on this particular snowy afternoon they were restless for it was nearing 4 o’clock and tomorrow was Christmas. “Teacher” was restless, too, tho she tried not to show it for she was wondering if she could get home for Christmas day.
It was almost too cold to hope for father to come and a storm was hanging in the northwest which might mean a blizzard at any minute. Still, tomorrow was Christmas, and then there was a jingle of sleigh bells outside. A man in a huge fur coat in a sleigh full of robes passed the window. I was going home after all!
When one thinks of 12 miles now, it is in terms of motor cars and means only a few minutes. It was different then, and I’ll never forget that ride. The bells made a merry jingle and the fur robes were warm, but the weather was growing colder and the snow was drifting so that the horses must break their way thru the drifts.
We were facing the strong wind and every little while he who later became “the man of the place,” must stop the team, get out in the snow, and by putting his hands over each horse’s nose in turn, thaw the ice from them where the breath had frozen over their nostrils. Then he would get back into the sleigh and on we’d go until once more the horsed could not breathe, for the ice.
When we reached the journey’s end, it was 40 degrees below zero, the snow was blowing so thickly that we could not see across the street and I was so chilled that I had to be half carried into the house. But I was home for Christmas and cold and danger were forgotten.
Such magic there is in Christmas to draw the absent ones home and if unable to go in the body the thoughts will hover there! Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred and we are better throughout the year for having in spirit, become a child again at Christmas time.
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Among my books of verse, there is an old poem that I could scarcely do without. It is “The Fool’s Prayer” by Edward Rowland Sill and every now and then I have been impelled, in deep humiliation of spirit, to pray the prayer made by the old-time jester of the king.
Even tho one is not in the habit of making New Year’s resolutions, to be broken whenever the opportunity arises, still as the old year departs, like Lot’s wife, we cannot resist a backward glance. As we see in the retrospect, the things we should have done, we have a hope that the coming year will show a better record.
In my glance backward and hope for the future, one thing became plain to me — that I valued the love and appreciation of my friends more than ever before and that I would try to show my love for them; that I would be more careful of their feelings, more tactful and so endear myself to them.
A few days later a friend and I went together to an afternoon gathering where refreshments were served and we came back to my friend’s home just as the evening meal was ready. The Man of The Place failed to meet me and so I stayed unexpectedly. My friend made apologies for the simple meal and I said that I preferred plain food to such as we had in the afternoon, which was the same as saying that her meal was plain and that the afternoon refreshments had been finer. I felt that I had said the wrong thing and in a desperate effort to make amends I praised the soup which had been served. Not being satisfied to let well enough alone, because of my embarrassment, I continued, “It is so easy to have delicious soups, one can make them of just any little things that are left.”
And all the way home as I rode quietly beside The Man of the Place I kept praying “The Fool’s Prayer,”
O Lord be merciful to me, a fool.
We can afford to laugh at a little mistake such as that, however embarrassing it may be. To laugh and forget is one of the saving graces, but only a little later I was guilty of another mistake, over which I cannot laugh.
Mrs. G and I were in a group of women at a social affair, but having a little business to talk over, we stepped into another room where we were almost immediately followed by an acquaintance. We greeted her and then went on with our conversation, from which she was excluded. I forgot her presence and when I looked her way again she was gone. We had not been kind and, to make it worse, she was comparatively a stranger among us.
In a few minutes every one was leaving, without my having had a chance to make amends in any way. I could not apologize without giving a point to the rudeness but I thought that I would be especially gracious to her when we met again so she would not feel that we made her an outsider. Now I learn that it will be months before I see her again. I know that she is very sensitive and that I must have hurt her. Again and from the bottom of my heart, I prayed “The Fool’s Prayer,”
These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend,
O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool.
As we grow old enough to have a proper perspective, we see such things work out to their conclusion, or rather to a partial conclusion, for the effects go on and on endlessly. Very few of our misdeeds are with deliberate intent to do wrong. Our hearts are mostly in the right place but we seem to be weak in the head.
‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
Our faults no tenderness should ask
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunder — oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
Without doubt each one of us is fully entitled to pray the whole of “The Fool’s Prayer” and more especially the refrain,
O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool.
“A Few Minutes with a Poet” by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published in The Missouri Ruralist, January 5, 1919
Even tho one is not in the habit of making New Year’s resolutions, to be broken whenever the opportunity arises, still as the old year departs, like Lot’s wife, we cannot resist a backward glance. As we see in the retrospect, the things we should have done, we have a hope that the coming year will show a better record.
In my glance backward and hope for the future, one thing became plain to me — that I valued the love and appreciation of my friends more than ever before and that I would try to show my love for them; that I would be more careful of their feelings, more tactful and so endear myself to them.
A few days later a friend and I went together to an afternoon gathering where refreshments were served and we came back to my friend’s home just as the evening meal was ready. The Man of The Place failed to meet me and so I stayed unexpectedly. My friend made apologies for the simple meal and I said that I preferred plain food to such as we had in the afternoon, which was the same as saying that her meal was plain and that the afternoon refreshments had been finer. I felt that I had said the wrong thing and in a desperate effort to make amends I praised the soup which had been served. Not being satisfied to let well enough alone, because of my embarrassment, I continued, “It is so easy to have delicious soups, one can make them of just any little things that are left.”
And all the way home as I rode quietly beside The Man of the Place I kept praying “The Fool’s Prayer,”
O Lord be merciful to me, a fool.
We can afford to laugh at a little mistake such as that, however embarrassing it may be. To laugh and forget is one of the saving graces, but only a little later I was guilty of another mistake, over which I cannot laugh.
Mrs. G and I were in a group of women at a social affair, but having a little business to talk over, we stepped into another room where we were almost immediately followed by an acquaintance. We greeted her and then went on with our conversation, from which she was excluded. I forgot her presence and when I looked her way again she was gone. We had not been kind and, to make it worse, she was comparatively a stranger among us.
In a few minutes every one was leaving, without my having had a chance to make amends in any way. I could not apologize without giving a point to the rudeness but I thought that I would be especially gracious to her when we met again so she would not feel that we made her an outsider. Now I learn that it will be months before I see her again. I know that she is very sensitive and that I must have hurt her. Again and from the bottom of my heart, I prayed “The Fool’s Prayer,”
These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend,
O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool.
As we grow old enough to have a proper perspective, we see such things work out to their conclusion, or rather to a partial conclusion, for the effects go on and on endlessly. Very few of our misdeeds are with deliberate intent to do wrong. Our hearts are mostly in the right place but we seem to be weak in the head.
‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
Our faults no tenderness should ask
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunder — oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
Without doubt each one of us is fully entitled to pray the whole of “The Fool’s Prayer” and more especially the refrain,
O Lord, be merciful to me, a fool.
“A Few Minutes with a Poet” by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published in The Missouri Ruralist, January 5, 1919
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"Thoughts are Things"
By Mrs. A. J. Wilder. Mansfield, Mo.
As someone has said,"Thoughts are things," and the atmosphere of every home depends on the kind of thoughts each member of that home is thinking.
I spent an afternoon a short time ago with a friend in her new home. The house was beautiful and well furnished with new furniture but it seemed bare and empty to me. I wondered why this was until I remembered my experience with my new house. I could not make the living room seem homelike. I would move the chairs here and there and change the pictures on the wall, but something was lacking. Nothing seemed to change the feeling of coldness and vacancy that displeased me whenever I entered the room.
Then, as I stood in the middle of the room one day wondering what I could possibly do to improve it, it came to me that all that was needed was someone to live in it and furnish it with the everyday, pleasant thoughts of friendship and cheerfulness and hospitality.
We all know there is a spirit in every home, a sort of composite spirit composed of the thoughts and feelings of the members of the family as a composite photograph is formed of the features of different individuals. This spirit meets us at the door as we enter the home. Sometimes it is a friendly, hospitable spirit and sometimes it is a cold and forbidding.
If the members of a home are ill-tempered and quarrelsome, how quickly you feel it when you enter the house. You may not know just what is wrong but you wish to make your visit short. If they are kindly, generous, good-tempered people you will have a feeling of warmth and welcome that will make you wish to stay. Sometimes you feel that you must be very prim and dignified and at another place you feel a rollicking good humor and a readiness to laugh and be merry. Poverty or riches, old style housekeeping or modern conveniences do not affect your feelings. It is the characters and personalities of the persons who live there.
Each individual has a share in making this atmosphere of the home what it is, but the mother can mold it more to her wish. I read a piece of poetry several years ago supposed to be a man speaking of his wife and this was the refrain of the little story:
"I love my wife because she laughs,
Because she laughs and doesn't care."
I'm sure that would have been a delightful home to visit, for a good laugh overcomes more difficulties and dissipates more dark clouds than any other one thing. And this woman was the embodied spirit of cheerfulness and good temper.
Let's be cheerful! We have no more right to steal the brightness out of the day for our own family than we have to steal the purse of a stranger. let us be as careful that our homes are furnished with pleasant and happy thoughts as we are that the rugs are the right color and texture and the furniture comfortable and beautiful!
Mrs. A. J. Wilder. "Thoughts are Things" Missouri Ruralist, (November 5, 1917
By Mrs. A. J. Wilder. Mansfield, Mo.
As someone has said,"Thoughts are things," and the atmosphere of every home depends on the kind of thoughts each member of that home is thinking.
I spent an afternoon a short time ago with a friend in her new home. The house was beautiful and well furnished with new furniture but it seemed bare and empty to me. I wondered why this was until I remembered my experience with my new house. I could not make the living room seem homelike. I would move the chairs here and there and change the pictures on the wall, but something was lacking. Nothing seemed to change the feeling of coldness and vacancy that displeased me whenever I entered the room.
Then, as I stood in the middle of the room one day wondering what I could possibly do to improve it, it came to me that all that was needed was someone to live in it and furnish it with the everyday, pleasant thoughts of friendship and cheerfulness and hospitality.
We all know there is a spirit in every home, a sort of composite spirit composed of the thoughts and feelings of the members of the family as a composite photograph is formed of the features of different individuals. This spirit meets us at the door as we enter the home. Sometimes it is a friendly, hospitable spirit and sometimes it is a cold and forbidding.
If the members of a home are ill-tempered and quarrelsome, how quickly you feel it when you enter the house. You may not know just what is wrong but you wish to make your visit short. If they are kindly, generous, good-tempered people you will have a feeling of warmth and welcome that will make you wish to stay. Sometimes you feel that you must be very prim and dignified and at another place you feel a rollicking good humor and a readiness to laugh and be merry. Poverty or riches, old style housekeeping or modern conveniences do not affect your feelings. It is the characters and personalities of the persons who live there.
Each individual has a share in making this atmosphere of the home what it is, but the mother can mold it more to her wish. I read a piece of poetry several years ago supposed to be a man speaking of his wife and this was the refrain of the little story:
"I love my wife because she laughs,
Because she laughs and doesn't care."
I'm sure that would have been a delightful home to visit, for a good laugh overcomes more difficulties and dissipates more dark clouds than any other one thing. And this woman was the embodied spirit of cheerfulness and good temper.
Let's be cheerful! We have no more right to steal the brightness out of the day for our own family than we have to steal the purse of a stranger. let us be as careful that our homes are furnished with pleasant and happy thoughts as we are that the rugs are the right color and texture and the furniture comfortable and beautiful!
Mrs. A. J. Wilder. "Thoughts are Things" Missouri Ruralist, (November 5, 1917
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There were once two men who had different ways of treating their horses when they went around them in the barn. One always spoke to his horses as he passed so that they might know he was there and not kick. The other never spoke to them. He said it was their business to look before they kicked. This last man often spoke of his way as being much the best. One day he advised the other to change his way of doing because someday he would forget to speak and get kicked. Not long after, this actually happened and the man was seriously injured. His wife said to me, “If he had spoken to the horse when he went into the barn as he used to do he would not have been hurt, but lately he had stopped doing that and the horse kicked before it saw him.” I always have thought that the accident happened because of his friend’s advice and I have seen so often where what was best for me might not be just the thing for the other fellow that I have decided to keep my advice until asked for and then administer it in small doses.
From “Giving and Taking Advice” by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published in The Missouri Ruralist, January 20, 1917
From “Giving and Taking Advice” by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published in The Missouri Ruralist, January 20, 1917
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Mother, a Magic Word
The older we grow the more precious become the recollections of childhood’s days, especially our memories of mother. Her love and care halo her memory with a brighter radiance, for we have discovered that nowhere else in the world is such loving self-sacrifice to be found; her counsels and instructions appeal to us with greater force than when we received them, because our knowledge of the world and our experience of life have proved their worth.
The pity of it is that it is by our own experience we have had to gain this knowledge of their value, then when we have learned it in the hard school of life, we know that mother’s words were true. So, from generation to generation, the truths of life are taught by precept and generation after generation we each must be burned by fire before we will admit the truth that it will burn.
We would be saved some sorry blunders and many a heart-ache if we might begin our knowledge where our parents leave off instead of experimenting for ourselves, but life is not that way.
Still mother’s advice does help and often a word of warning spoken years before will recur to us at just the right moment to save us a misstep. And lessons learned at mother’s knee last thru life.
But dearer even than mother’s teaching are little, personal memories of her, different in each case but essentially the same—mother’s face, mother’s touch, mother’s voice:
Childhood’s far days were full of joy,
So merry and bright and gay,
On sunny wings of happiness,
Swiftly they flew away.
But oh! By far the sweetest hour,
Of all the whole day long,
Was the slumber hour at twilight
And my mother’s voice in song—
“Hush my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed,
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently resting on thy head.”
Tho our days are filled with gladness,
Joys of life like sunshine fall,
Still life’s slumber hour at twilight
May be sweetest of them all.
And when to realms of boundless peace,
I am waiting to depart
Then my Mother’s song at twilight
Will make music in my heart,
“Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Hold angels guard thy bed.”—
And I’ll fall asleep so sweetly,
Mother’s blessings on my head.*
*Perhaps on of Laura’s own poems.
“Mother, a Magic Word”, by Laura Ingalls Wilder, Missouri Ruralist, September 1, 1921
The older we grow the more precious become the recollections of childhood’s days, especially our memories of mother. Her love and care halo her memory with a brighter radiance, for we have discovered that nowhere else in the world is such loving self-sacrifice to be found; her counsels and instructions appeal to us with greater force than when we received them, because our knowledge of the world and our experience of life have proved their worth.
The pity of it is that it is by our own experience we have had to gain this knowledge of their value, then when we have learned it in the hard school of life, we know that mother’s words were true. So, from generation to generation, the truths of life are taught by precept and generation after generation we each must be burned by fire before we will admit the truth that it will burn.
We would be saved some sorry blunders and many a heart-ache if we might begin our knowledge where our parents leave off instead of experimenting for ourselves, but life is not that way.
Still mother’s advice does help and often a word of warning spoken years before will recur to us at just the right moment to save us a misstep. And lessons learned at mother’s knee last thru life.
But dearer even than mother’s teaching are little, personal memories of her, different in each case but essentially the same—mother’s face, mother’s touch, mother’s voice:
Childhood’s far days were full of joy,
So merry and bright and gay,
On sunny wings of happiness,
Swiftly they flew away.
But oh! By far the sweetest hour,
Of all the whole day long,
Was the slumber hour at twilight
And my mother’s voice in song—
“Hush my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed,
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently resting on thy head.”
Tho our days are filled with gladness,
Joys of life like sunshine fall,
Still life’s slumber hour at twilight
May be sweetest of them all.
And when to realms of boundless peace,
I am waiting to depart
Then my Mother’s song at twilight
Will make music in my heart,
“Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Hold angels guard thy bed.”—
And I’ll fall asleep so sweetly,
Mother’s blessings on my head.*
*Perhaps on of Laura’s own poems.
“Mother, a Magic Word”, by Laura Ingalls Wilder, Missouri Ruralist, September 1, 1921
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The Family Motto
By Laura Ingalls Wilder
It has become quite the customary thing for farms to be given a distinguishing name. It adds much to the interest of a farm home, especially as the name usually calls attention to some feature of the place that marks it as different from the farms surrounding it.
Naming the home place is an old, old custom, but the people who lived at such places used to have a family motto, also. Families as well as farms have distinguishing traits of character, and there is always some of these on which a family prides itself. Only the other day I heard a man say, “My father’s word was as good as his note and he brought us children up that way.”
Why not have a family motto expressing something for which we, as a family, stand?
Such a motto would be a help in keeping the family up to standard by giving the members a cause for pride in it and what it represents; it might even be a help in raising the standard of family life and honor.
If the motto of a family were, “My word is my bond,” do you not think the children of that family would be proud to keep their word and feel disgraced if they failed to do so?
Suppose the motto were, “Ever ready,” would not the members of that family try to be on the alert for whatever came?
Perhaps it would be possible to cure a family weakness by choosing a motto representing its opposite as an ideal for the family to strive toward. We might keep our choice a family secret until we had proven ourselves and could face the world with it.
Tho, in these days, we would not put the motto upon our shield as did the knights of old, but we could use it in many ways. If carried only in our hearts, it would draw the family closer together.
Let’s have a family motto as well as a farm name!
From “As a Farm Woman Thinks (12)” by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published in The Missouri Ruralist, August 15, 1922
By Laura Ingalls Wilder
It has become quite the customary thing for farms to be given a distinguishing name. It adds much to the interest of a farm home, especially as the name usually calls attention to some feature of the place that marks it as different from the farms surrounding it.
Naming the home place is an old, old custom, but the people who lived at such places used to have a family motto, also. Families as well as farms have distinguishing traits of character, and there is always some of these on which a family prides itself. Only the other day I heard a man say, “My father’s word was as good as his note and he brought us children up that way.”
Why not have a family motto expressing something for which we, as a family, stand?
Such a motto would be a help in keeping the family up to standard by giving the members a cause for pride in it and what it represents; it might even be a help in raising the standard of family life and honor.
If the motto of a family were, “My word is my bond,” do you not think the children of that family would be proud to keep their word and feel disgraced if they failed to do so?
Suppose the motto were, “Ever ready,” would not the members of that family try to be on the alert for whatever came?
Perhaps it would be possible to cure a family weakness by choosing a motto representing its opposite as an ideal for the family to strive toward. We might keep our choice a family secret until we had proven ourselves and could face the world with it.
Tho, in these days, we would not put the motto upon our shield as did the knights of old, but we could use it in many ways. If carried only in our hearts, it would draw the family closer together.
Let’s have a family motto as well as a farm name!
From “As a Farm Woman Thinks (12)” by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published in The Missouri Ruralist, August 15, 1922