Horn Books

Horn Books

A horn book is a very early printed book. The horn book was not generally used for entertainment, but for educational instruction, usually consisting of an alphabet, vowels, the trinity invocation and the Lord's Prayer.These books were common around shakespearean times, and were among the first books to be available to be handled by children. Most of them were heavily influenced by religion, as can be seen by the inclusion of the Lord's Prayer.

The general construction of a horn book was a sheet of parchment or paper that was adhered to a piece of wood and then laminated with a leaf of horn. While the front of the book (the actual paper) did not leave much room for illustration, the back of the wood piece would sometimes be engraved with beautiful images.

The structure of the book made it easy for children to hold and carry. It had a handle at the end, usually with a hole in it. The hole was used to tie a string through and carry the book on the child's belt or around their neck. Later, horn books were made of different materials like leather, ivory, silver, or cardboard.

The horn used to protect the paper on the book was actually made of horns from oxen or sheep. It needed to be protected so the child did not get it dirty. The horn would be soaked in cold water for several weeks, which would separate the part needed for the laminating. They would heat the usable part of the horn over boiling water and fire and use pressing plate machines to adhere it to the front of the book, smoothing t out to make it transparent.

I find it interesting that these books were used as we would commonly use textbooks today. They were virtually indestructible, so many kids would use them as bats to play baseball with! Another interesting fact, is that some of the horn books were made of gingerbread, and when a child learned a letter, he or she would be allowed to eat it! The horn book is an interesting piece of history, because it shows the evolution of printed books. 

http://www.bookmakingwithkids.com/?p=716

http://www.iupui.edu/~engwft/hornbook.html

http://www.nd.edu/~rbarger/www7/hornbook.html

The Blue Bird’s Song

The Blue Bird’s Song

Once upon a time, there lived a little blue bird named Sunny, with a special gift. This little bird could sing more beautiful than any other bird in the world. The problem with this little bird was that his feathers. They were blue. In his little bird village, he was the only blue bird; every other bird was yellow. The only birds who did not care about his blueness were his mama and papa and his best friend, Gloria. The rest of the village always seemed to pick on Sunny, for deep down they were jealous of his unique and vibrant color.

When Sunny was just an egg, he dropped from his nest. Thankfully, he landed in a pile of leaves so his shell did not crack. His mother looked, and could not find him anywhere. When the weather began to change, she had no choice but to fly away. The winds were picking up and getting colder, and the little bird inside that shell was so close to taking his last little birdie breath. One day, the winds carried away all the leaves, leaving Sunny’s little egg out in the open. Mama and Papa bird were flying above, when they looked down and saw this little egg. Of course, they couldn’t just leave him, so they picked Sunny up and Mama flew with him in her wing until they got home safely.

A few days later, a little blue bird emerged from the egg, and Mama and Papa decided, although they were yellow, they would raise the blue bird, and they named him Sunny. Sunny grew up around all yellow birds, and he always wondered why he was different. He didn’t like to be different; sometimes he wished he was yellow like everyone else. When he met his best friend, Gloria, he felt a little better about being blue. Gloria always admired his beautiful color, and said to him, “Oh Sunny, I wish I was as blue as the sky, as blue as the cool water, and as blue as the hyacinths in the field – just like you are!” Under his blue feathers, Sunny would blush at this.

One thing Sunny loved to do was sing – and he sang better than any of the birds he knew. Although, he never let anyone except Gloria hear him sing, for he knew the other birds would be jealous and would pick on him more if they knew. On a warm summer day, Sunny was gathering food for his family when he heard something that made his little feathers stand up on edge – he knew right away, it was a cat! And this cat was hungry! He turned slowly around, and said to the cat, “Kitty, Kitty, don’t eat me – I’m no good to eat!” Then, without a word, the cat pounced at him, coming just a few hairs from his tiny bird body.

Sunny flew as fast he could, trying so hard to get away from this evil cat. He flew in the direction of his birdie neighborhood, hoping the little birds could band together and help him. When he got to where all the other birds were, he quickly told everyone what was happening before the cat appeared behind him. All the birds were in a panic, except Gloria. Gloria said one word to Sunny. She said, “Sing!” So, not knowing what else to do, Sunny sang. He sang as beautifully as he ever had before. The other birds stopped their panic and were stunned and amazed with what was happening. The cat stopped in his tracks, listening intently to the little bird’s song. He no longer felt hungry, because he was entranced by the beautiful singing. After listening to Sunny’s song, the cat just moseyed away, and whenever he came back – he came to listen to Sunny sing, not to eat any birds.

Ever since that day, every other bird in the birdie town did not even think about Sunny being blue, they thought of him as the most wonderful singer in the world! And anytime an evil critter would try to bother them, they would call on Sunny, and he would sing to them, making them realize the beauty in the birds and inspiring them to preserve that beauty instead of destroying it. The most important change happened in Sunny himself – he no longer cared that he wasn’t yellow, and he felt just right in his blue feathers.

The End

Reader's Sketch Rough Draft

Allie Capobianco

Children’s Literature, Spring 2012

Reader’s Sketch

01/15/2012

A Life of Reading

            A young reader isn’t really a reader at all, she is a listener. She listens with excitement as her mother reads from her favorite story book. I vividly remember curling up under my warm fuzzy blanket, watching my mother’s mouth form the words from one of my favorite story books. The bright, flowing colors came to life before my eyes as I gazed at the pages. The first few times I listened to this story, I was entranced by the excitement and anticipation – would all the letters make it into the tree? By the third time, I chimed in with my mom repeating what would define my young life as a listener: “Chicka chicka boom boom, will there be enough room up in the coconut tree?”  Repetition and rhythm defined my early days of reading. Any book with a little song or with rhyming instantly became a favorite. On Christmas Eve, I would lay my head in my mother’s lap; she would gently stroke my hair as she read “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to me, changing her voice to reflect the altering voices of the characters and tones of the story. I can still clearly hear Santa’s voice, as portrayed by my mother, calling on his Reindeer to take to the sky! At this point, I was perfectly happy listening to stories and letting my mind make sense of the words spoken to me, creating images and connections to my life.

            After listening for many years, I began to find myself yearning to imitate the character’s voices for myself. I wanted to see what it felt like to become the story teller instead of the listener. Being interested in Princesses and fairytales, I began to read stories like Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Reclining in a chair outside on the deck, I would quietly read to myself. Our deck looked out onto the woods, so I would imagine all the enchanted creatures that must lurk out there. Looking across the woods through the tangled and twisted branches, I could see a single house, painted black. I just knew this house was inhabited by an evil witch that would surely do something horrific to me if she got the chance. When the smoke from her chimney began to rise in the chilly autumn air, I closed my book and went back inside.

These adventurous stories inspired me to explore my own story telling abilities. I went from being the listener to the teller. Now, at bedtime, I would sit up in bed while my mom sat at the opposite end. I could tell me mother loved listening to my stories about enchanted castles and evil step mothers because she always listened intently and reacted to different parts of the story as I knew she would. When Princess Alexis finally came face to face with the despicable frog that was trying to capture her, my arms became cartoonish and huge, my fingers curled and twisted, and my voice became deep and scratchy as the frog spoke his evil words. After countless nights of different (but very similar) stories, the ideas flowed less and less until I just sort of lost interest in these fantastic stories. My reading career then turned in a different direction – one that has endured to this day.

            In elementary school, we had something called DEAR – Drop Everything And Read. For 20 minutes once a week, the whole class would be silent as the students sat with their book of choice and read. The first few times, I would usually forget to bring a book and just read one the teacher had available. I leafed through a few boring books, barely reading them, just counting down the minutes. One day, I found a book on the teacher’s shelf that had green gooey looking letters spelling out “Goosebumps.” Underneath this, I found the title of the book, The Haunted Mask. What really intrigued me was the picture on the cover – a kid in overalls with a horrifying mask. I felt a tinge of fear mixed with excitement, this was a feeling I liked. I found a spot to sit under an art table in the corner where it was still light enough to read, but dark enough to provide the perfect ambiance for this type of story. Those twenty minutes flew by! From the first few paragraphs I was hooked. After DEAR time was over, I asked my teacher if I could borrow the book to continue at home. I opened to my Daisy printed bookmark right away on the bus, and continued my reading throughout the night. I was entranced by the plot. I was terrified, yet extremely excited and I couldn’t wait to find out what happened next. When the little girl in the story couldn’t get the mask off her face, I felt a dreadful horror well up inside me. I knew this was the feeling I would search for in a story. I read many more books from the “Goosebumps” series, and the thrill was always pleasurable for me. I had found my reading niche.

            A few years passed, and I was beginning to find the creepiness in the “Goosebumps” books to be less and less terrifying, until they really weren’t giving me the same feelings as they had before. I was desensitized. I think I was in fifth grade when I decided to read my first Stephen King novel. It was by chance that I chose this author, as I didn’t know the book was by him until after I read it. I was browsing my mother’s bookshelves, sliding my fingers over the book jackets, picking out the ones that looked interesting. I came across a hard cover novel with a colorful cover. It had a picture on it that instantly caught my attention. A little suburban neighborhood with quaint little houses, except while one of the houses had children playing outside of it, another one was on fire. In front of the houses, there was a terrifying wolf, and peeking out from behind one of them was a ghostly man with a gun. The title was also intriguing: The Regulators, by Richard Bachman. I had never heard of Richard Bachman or the regulators, so I decided to read a few pages to see if this was something I might like.

Just as The Haunted Mask had done years ago, this book instantly fascinated me. The plot was anything but simple. A quiet suburban town begins to slip away into an unknown and terrifying place, a place where children are being shot in cold blood on the street by a group of common television characters. They are all from different shows, yet in this story, they’ve come together to terrorize this small town. A young autistic boy seems to know the motivation behind this senseless murderous rage – and it’s called Tak. Tak is never fully explained, but it seems to be some sort of evil sprit that, when let loose, causes the worst destruction one could imagine. This dark and twisted plot was what I had been seeking. It provided me the excitement, terror, and adrenaline I wanted. Only later did I find out that “Richard Bachman” was actually Stephen King. I credit my love for reading to The Regulators and to Stephen King.

            In every forward passage written by Mr. King, he thanks his “constant reader,” and I can be fully classified as just that. Since reading my first King novel, I have read every book and short story he has ever written. It would be impossible to pick a favorite! I remember watching the movie “It” when I was young, and I was so scared of the clown and have had a lifelong fear of sewers ever since. So, in my late teens I decided to read the book. I read it in the summer, and the first few chapters were read under the hot sun in my front yard. I laid on my stomach on the freshly mowed grass and began to read a horrific, yet inspiring tale. This book was another milestone in my reading history because it showed me a new aspect of reading. The connection I had with the characters was real; I knew these people, and they were like my friends. “The Loser’s Club” became a part of my life. I would think about these characters even while I wasn’t reading, and long after the book had been finished.

Continuing with this theme, I should mention my favorite story of all time. I decided, after much deliberation if I was ready for the journey, to open the cover of The Gunslinger, the first of “The Dark Tower Series” books by Stephen King. Less scary than some other books by King, this story was adventurous, emotional, sometimes dark, and yet always twisted and surprising. For about four months (the time it took me to read all the books), my life was overtaken by the Dark Tower. I Followed Roland Deschain and his ka-tet (group of three) as they embark on a mission to, simply put, save the world, thus fulfilling their ka (destiny). Every word in the entire seven book series touched me on an emotional level that has yet to be matched by any reading experience. These characters were closer to me than most of the real people in my life, and I still miss them, to this day.

            I am lucky. From an early age, I discovered something that could take me away from the world and make me forget about any problems I was having. I found my love for reading, and specifically, found an appreciation for all literature, even if my favorites happen to be very dark and sometimes outright sadistic. From the early days of listening to rhyming patterns of my favorite childhood stories, to the adult years spent with my eyes burning after a night of reading “just one more chapter” in a new Stephen King novel, my life has been filled with amazing stories. I find that a story itself is not what keeps me reading, it is the emotions and feelings these stories provoke. 

             

"Why The Best Children's Books are written in Blood"

This article, written by Sherman Alexie, is closely related to my viewpoint of Children's literature. Violence or other controversial topics may not only be intriguing enough to motivate an otherwise uninterested young person to read, these subjects can surprisingly enrich the learning experience. Whether a reader has had tumultuous experiences (as the readers described in the article have had) or are just simply curious about depravity, it is important to provide some sort of outlet. The ideal choice, in my opinion, is literature. A curious child would be better off learning about drug use, for example, by reading a story rather than attempting to experiment with them.

At the parent's discretion, children should be afforded similar rights as adults - to read whatever interests them and not have to worry about the material being either unavailable or considered "bad" thus causing shame in their curiosity. Alexie makes an outstanding argument regarding his reasons for writing this type of literature. In his article, he writes, "...I write books for teenagers because I vividly remember what it felt like to be a teen facing everyday and epic dangers." His reason correlates with the motivations of his readers. They are searching for an outlet for the unavoidable stresses of adolescence. With all the despicable things a teen must endure in today's society and the limited resources available to them, why would anyone want to take away what could serve as an effective coping tool? Is this material any worse than what's on the five o'clock news or on a crime drama that airs prime time on a national network?

By, Allie Capobianco