I continue with my Gutenberg Project Project and I’m still at AB. Recently I have only been reading books by Abbotts. I bet they are all related. In one of her stories Eleanor Hallowell Abbott mentions an aunt who designed toys and games and here is what Wikipedia has to say about Anne W Abbott “she was a game designer, magazine editor, literary reviewer, and author.” Hm! Coincidence? I think not!
By the way, I did review Anne’s Autumn Leaves as well.
As for "Fairy Prince and Other Stories", they are cute, ingenious stories told by an eight year old narrator and I wondered whether they were actually written by Eleanor aged eight because the voice is almost too authentic. The sentences are short and to the point and the stories are told very matter-of-factly. There is also that innocent, childish attention to often irrelevant detail.
I enjoyed these stories thoroughly. Especially the one about Christmas which I happened to read around Christmas, and I am at my softest around Christmas.
Here are my favourite quotes for your enjoyment:
"You don't seem to understand," I whispered. "It's Christmas relationships that are worrying Carol and me so! It worries us dreadfully! Oh, of course we understand all about the Little Baby Christ! And the camels! And the wise men! And the frankincense! That's easy! But who is Santa Claus? Unless—unless—?" It was Carol himself who signaled me to go on. "Unless—he's the Baby Christ's grandfather?" I thought Derry Willard looked a little bit startled. Carol's ears turned bright red. "Oh, of course—we meant on his mother's side!" I hastened to assure him.
"Your Aunt Esta's Suitor?" cried the Rich Man. "Suitor?" He clapped his hand over his mouth. He burst a safety-pin that helped lash the plaid shawl around him. "What do you mean,—'Suitor?'" he said.
It seemed queer he was so stupid.
"Why a Suitor," I explained, "is a Person Who Doesn't Suit—so he keeps right on coming most every day to see if he does! As soon as he suits, of course, he's your husband and doesn't come any more at all—because he's already there! The New Minister," I explained very patiently, "is a Suitor for our Aunt Esta's hand!"
We told my Mother we were sorry to be late but that we were writing a book and it was very important.
My Mother said yes,—she knew that writing books was very important and had always noticed that people who wrote 'em were very apt to be late to things. Her only regret, she said, was that Carol and I hadn't had a little more time in which to form habits of promptness before we began on such a chronic career as Literature.
My Father said "Stuff and Nonsense!" My Father said that if we'd kindly condescend to tear ourselves away from the Charms of Literature for one brief afternoon he'd like to have us weed the Tulip Bed.
We said we would.