The vast collection of the Metropolitan Museum is effectively arranged and integrated on the www.metmuseum.org website. Navigation of the site is straightforward, enabling efficient browsing or research. Although no specific essays or exhibits on children and youth are found on the site, several hundred artworks relevant to the topic can be located by searching the Collection Database or the Timeline of Art History (TOAH)—more than sites dedicated to the subject.

The Collection Database of 129,022 objects can be searched as a whole, by subject, by curatorial department, or by exhibit. The collection database search is comprehensive, and returned 3629 entries under "children." Childe Hassam is a distracter in this keyword search, but the search "Children NOT Childe" reduced the return to 319 items. "Boy" returned many distracters, but "girl" returned 954 items, and "infant" returned 252 items. "Toys" returned only 21 items, indicating a limitation of the museum's collection in that area. "Youth" returned 186 works and "young" 1741 items. The biggest drawback of the collection search was that many of the works are associated with placeholder images, although the metadata may help locate images elsewhere. As digitization of the collection proceeds, this may improve.

The TOAH is an unmatched resource for educators. The 6,000 included artworks are organized by three integrated elements: maps, timelines, and thematic essays. World and regional maps correlate artwork to eleven world eras and locate it in ten world regions. Timelines place the artworks in historical context, and include key events, political, stylistic and technological periodization. Eight hundred thematic essays provide historical context for groups of artwork and discuss characteristics, techniques, and significance. The essays reveal connections among civilizations and regions, and provide material for comparative study.

Educators searching for information on children in art can locate artworks featuring children and youth by a search of the TOAH, which seems more rewarding than the database search because all of the works are associated with images, and they are easily placed in context by TOAH's features. The searches are conveniently shown by category, so the user can bring up all relevant artworks, essays, timelines or other occurrences with one click.

A TOAH search of "children" found the term in 23 timelines, 153 thematic essays, and 396 works of art. "Figure, Child" in the Subject Index returned 21 essays and 80 works of art, each shown as a thumbnail image with titles. On the subject of childbirth, 15 artworks can be viewed. Terms such as "girl" (97 works), "boy" (9) and "young" or "youth" (4) returned artworks from across the globe and the eras.

An activity using the 97 artworks under "girl" might compare the relative age connoted by the term in various cultures and periods. Some depict small children, while others are clearly young women. A selection of western European drawings and paintings could focus on the changing definition of girlhood over time or explore symbols and objects associated with girlhood. Some of the artworks show girls in active social roles, playing sports and games, fulfilling ritual roles, or being mourned in funerary works. Some of the works are expressions of girls' work in various societies, such as needlework, preparation of trousseaus, or manual labor at home. In short, the collection can be used to gather ideas about girlhood over time and across cultures. Similar explorations about youth and boys could be made. Educators will find many ways to place childhood in historical context using this website.

The Red Shoes

Once there was a little Girl – so delicate and pretty. Because she was poor, she had to go barefoot in the summer, and in the winter she had to wear big wooden shoes that rubbed against her instep until her little feet became quite red. It was awful.

Old Mother shoemaker lived in the middle of the village and used strips of old red cloth to sew a small pair of shoes as best as she could. They were crudely made, but she meant well, and she wanted the little girl to have them. The little girl's name was Karen.

On the very day that her mother was buried, Karen wore these red shoes for the first time. Of course, they were not the right thing to wear for mourning, but she did not have any other shoes. So she put them on her bare feet and followed the lowly straw coffin.

At that very moment a large old carriage passed by, with a large old woman inside. She looked at Karen and felt sorry for her. She said to the vicar, "Listen, let me have the little girl and I'll be good to her."

Karen thought that all this happened because of the red shoes, but the old lady said that they were hideous. The shoes were burned and Karen given neat, clean clothes. Now she had to learn to read and sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror said, "You're much more than pretty – you're beautiful!"

One day the queen traveled through the country with her little daughter who was a princess. People swarmed outside the castle – Karen was there too – and the princess, dressed in fine white clothing, stood in a window and let people admire her. The princess did not have a train or a gold crown, but she did have lovely red shoes, made of fine leather. They certainly looked a lot nicer than the ones that Mother Shoemaker had made for Karen. There was really nothing in the world like red shoes.

Eventually, Karen was old enough to be confirmed. She got new clothes and was supposed to get new shoes. The rich shoemaker who lived in town measured her little foot; his shop was in his house where large glass cases were filled with pretty shoes and shiny boots. It looked very nice, but the old woman could not see very well, so she got no pleasure from it. Among the shoes was a red pair, just like the ones the princess had worn. They were exquisite! And sure enough, the shoemaker said that he had sewn them for a nobleman's daughter, but they hadn't fit.

"It must be patent leather," the old lady said. "They are so shiny!"

"Yes, they are shiny," Karen said. They fit her, and they bought them, but the old lady didn't realize that they were red. She would never have allowed Karen to be confirmed in red shoes. Still, that is what happened.

Everyone looked at Karen's feet when she walked through the church to the choir door. Karen thought that even the ole pictures on the tombs – those portraits of vicars and vicars' wives, with stiff collars and long black robes – stared at her red shoes. She could think only about those shoes – even when the vicar put his hand on her head and talked about the holy baptism, about the covenant with God, and how she was about to become a grown-up Christian. The organ played solemnly, the children's choir sounded beautiful, and the old cantor sang, but Karen could think of nothing but her red shoes.

By afternoon everyone had told the old lady that Karen's shoes were red. The old lady said that red shoes were altogether inappropriate and that Karen had done a horrible thing. From that time on, whenever she went to church, Karen was told to wear black shoes, no matter how worn they were.

The following Sunday Karen was supposed to go to communion. She looked at the black shoes, and then she looked at the red shoes. She looked at the red ones again and put them on.

It was a beautiful sunny day. Karen and the old lady walked through the field along the path, which was a little dusty.

An older soldier leaned on a crutch by the church door; he had a peculiar long beard that was more red than white because it was red. He bowed all the way to the ground and asked the old lady if he could wipe off her shoes. Karen too stretched her little foot forward. "Look at those beautiful dancing shoes," the soldier said. "May they stay on tight when you dance!" Then he slapped the soles of the shoes.

The old lady gave the soldier a tip and walked inside the church with Karen.

Everyone in the church looked at Karen's red shoes, and all the portraits looked at them. When Karen knelt at the altar and put the gold chalice to her lips, she thought only about the red shoes. It was almost as if they were floating in the chalice – she forgot to sing the hymn, and she forgot to read the Lord's Prayer.

Everyone left the church, and the old woman got into her carriage. As Karen lifted her foot to follow her, the soldier standing nearby said. "Look at those beautiful dancing shoes," and Karen could not help herself: She had to dance a few steps. When she started, her legs kept dancing; it was as if the shoes had taken over. She danced around the corner of the church – she couldn't help it; the coachman had to run after her and grab hold of her, and he lifted her into the carriage. But her feet kept dancing and gave the kind old lady some terrible kicks. Finally, they managed to get the shoes off and Karen's legs calmed down.

When they got home, the shoes were put away in a closet, but Karen could not stop looking at them.

The old lady got sick, and they said that she wouldn't live long. Somebody had to take care of her and nurse her, and no one was closer than Karen. But there was a ball in town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the old lady, who was not going to live long anyway, and then at the red shoes. She saw no harm in that. She put on the red shoes, and that was all right, but then she went to the ball and started to dance.

When she wanted to dance to the right, the shoes danced to the left. When she wanted to move one way on the floor, the shoes went the other way, down the stairs, through the street, and out the city gate, and she danced – she had to dance – right into the dark forest.

Something bright shone above the trees, and she thought that it was the moon, because it was a face. But it was the old soldier with the red beard. He nodded and said, "Look at those beautiful dancing shoes!"

She was terrified and wanted to kick off the red shoes, but they would not come off. She ripped off her stockings, but the shoes were stuck to her feet. So she danced – she had to dance – over the fields and meadows, in the rain and shine, by night and by day. But it was worst at night.

She danced into the open churchyard, but the dead didn't dance – they had something much better to do than dancing. She wanted to sit on the grave of a humble person, where the bitter tansy weeds grew, but she found neither rest nor respite, and she danced toward the open door of the church. There she saw an angel in long white robes, with wings that reached from his shoulders all the way to the ground. His expression was serious and stern, and he held a shiny broadsword in his hand.

"You have to dance!" he said. "You have to dance in your red shoes until you're pale and cold – until your skin shrivels like a skeleton's. You have to dance from door to door, and wherever there are proud, vain children, you must knock on the door so that they hear you and fear you. You have to dance – dance!"

"Have mercy!" Karen shouted. But she did not hear the angel's answer because her shoes carried her through the gate, into the field, across roads and trails – she had to keep dancing and dancing.

One morning she danced past a door that she recognized. She heard hymns inside, and they carried out a coffin covered with flowers. She knew then that the old lady had died , and she felt abandoned by everyone and cursed by God's angel.

So she danced – she had to dance – in the dark night. Her shoes carried her off, past whitethorns and over stubbled fields, which scratched her until she bled. She danced across the heath to a lonely house. She knew that the executioner lived there, and she tapped on the window with her finger and said:
"Come out! Come out! I can't come in because I'm dancing!"

The executioner said, "You don't know who I am do you? I cut off the heads of evil people, and I can feel my axe quivering."

"Don't cut off my head!" Karen cried. "Because then I won't be able to repent my sin. But chop off my feet with the red shoes."

She confessed all her sins, and the executioner cut off her feet with the red shoes. But the shoes, with her small feet in them, still danced over the fields and into the deep forest.

The executioner made wooden legs and crutches for her and taught her a hymn, the one that sinners always sing. Then she kissed the hand that had swung the axe and went away over the heath.

"I've suffered enough for those red shoes," Karen said. "Now I want to go to church so everybody can see me." She walked boldly to the church door, but when she got there, the red shoes danced in front of her. She was frightened and turned back.

All the next week she was miserable and kept crying heavy tears. But when Sunday came, she said "All right – I've suffered and struggled enough. I think I'm just as good as lots of those people who are sitting so smugly in church." She walked ahead confidently, but she didn't get any farther than the gate – that was when she saw the red shoes dancing in front of her, and she was terrified. She turned back, and in her heart she repented for her sins.

She went to the vicarage and asked whether they would taker her as a servant. She promised to work hard and do whatever she could – it didn't matter what they paid her if only she had a roof over her head and lived among good people. The vicar's wife felt sorry for her and took her in. Karen was hardworking and pensive. She sat quietly and listened each evening when the vicar read aloud from the Bible. All their children were fond of her, but they talked about dressing up in frills and finery – and they talked about looking as beautiful as a queen – she shook her head.

They all went to the church on the following Sunday, and they asked Karen whether she wanted to come along. With tears in her eyes she looked sadly at her crutches. While they went to hear God's word, she went alone to her little room, which was big enough for only a bed and a chair. She sat down with her hymnal and was reading it devoutly when the wind carried the sounds of the organ from the church. Tearfully, she lifted her head and said, "Oh, God, help me!"

At that moment the sun shone brightly, and right in front of her, in white robes, stood God's angel, the one she had seen at night in the doorway to the church. But rather than his sharp sword, he carried a beautiful green branch covered with roses. He touched the ceiling with the branch and the ceiling rose high in the air – a brilliant golden star appeared where he had touched it. Then he touched the walls and they widened. Karen looked at the organ as it was playing, and she saw the old pictures of vicars and vicar's wives; the congregation sat in the ornate pews and sang from their hymnals. The church itself had come to the poor girl in the little cramped room, or perhaps she had gone to the church. She sat in a pew with the other people from the vicarage, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, "It was good that you came, Karen."

"By the grace of God," she replied.

Then the organ swelled, and the children's choir sounded sweet and beautiful. The bright warm sunshine streamed through the window into the pew where Karen sat. Her heart was so filled with sunshine – with peace and happiness – that it burst. Her soul flew up to God on the rays of the sun, and no one there asked about the red shoes.

Why I Taught the Source

It is likely that the last time many American high school students were exposed to folktales was in their childhood when at bedtime they heard stories such as "The Ugly Duckling" and "The Princess and the Pea." In my AP World History class, I reintroduce students to folktales along with a method for comparing and contrasting the European and Asian cultures that produced them. Focusing on folktales from 1750 to 1850 provides an opportunity to shed light on the dynamic relationship between culture, childhood, and children.

For this particular lesson we examined two classic tales that while similar in many respects, highlight regional cultural differences especially in regard to childhood ideals. In Hans Christian Andersen's "The Red Shoes" (1845) the protagonist gives into temptation but is able to redeem herself in the end. Though temptation is at the center of P'u Sung-ling's "The Taoist Priest of Lao-Shan" (1766), the end result is humiliation rather than redemption.

How I Introduce the Source

The two-day lesson began with an examination of the cultural contexts relevant to each historical source: Imperial China and industrializing Europe during the 18th and 19th centuries. We defined "culture" and discussed its components and meanings. Rather than seeing culture as a catchall term for societal institutions such as religion and government, I encouraged my students to consider the ways in which attitudes, prejudices, and folklore also influenced everyday life. Defining culture in this way helped students to think about folktales as a method for influencing children's ideas and behaviors.

Building upon our prior discussions about methods of analyses in previous classes, I suggested that the students read these primary sources comparatively in order to analyze how the two tales were similar and how they differed.

Reading the Source

For homework, students read the two stories and took notes on the themes, ideas, and topics. I asked each student to answer two questions on their personal blog:

1. How are these two folktales similar? How are they different?
2. How would each folktale influence a child's cultural worldview?

Throughout the year students blog on Ning Ning, a social network that serves as a central location for student communication, reflection, and collaboration. Each student has their own blog where they routinely write entries, answer questions, and post relevant videos or world music that they find. The use of the Ning provides a central location and an interactive method of communication outside of class.

In addition to posting their own blog entry, students were asked to write a substantive comment on at least one of their classmates' blog entries in an attempt to offer a new approach or raise an issue for discussion. I graded the students on the value that they added to the discussion in both their own blog entry and in their peer commentary. As students posted their entries and comments, I noted the dominant themes and salient ideas in preparation for our next class meeting.

The next day, students met in groups of three for five minutes to discuss what they had discovered the night before. After the small group discussion, the class as a whole discussed the sources and what folktales might tell us about cultural values.

Reflections

In their discussion, students noted the emphasis on a belief system in both folktales. They mentioned that while "The Red Shoes" was a violent tale, the protagonist was able to repent and redeem herself because she was a Christian. While "The Taoist Priest of Lao-Shan" was not as violent, the protagonist's temptation left him in a state of humiliation.

Students determined that the two stories shared temptation as a common theme but noted the different results of that temptation. They concluded that both Mr. Wang from "The Taoist Priest of Lao-Shan" and Karen from "The Red Shoes" are both tempted by vanity. Whether it is for a pair of shoes or the secret of immortality, the theme is similar. While both characters are tempted, the students believed that their fates are vastly different. They recognized that redemption is found only in "The Red Shoes," where as Mr. Wang from "The Taoist Priest of Lao-Shan" is shamed for his temptation. The class decided that the regional differences in the folktales are based upon that fact. In the end, my students concluded that the emphasis on redemption in Christianity and the lack of redemption in Taoism helped define European and Chinese cultures during the 18th and 19th centuries and, in turn, influenced the development of the region’s children.

Analyzing these two tales provided students with an opportunity to understand one way in which cultural values were transmitted, that is, via childhood. This lesson was also designed to improve students' critical thinking and writing skills by demonstrating that while some childhood lessons are similar across cultures, there are also many important cross-cultural differences.

In examining the two regional folktales, my students discussed how these stories may have been used to teach moral lessons. By critically reading and analyzing similarities and differences, students' ability to compare and contrast showed improvement. This lesson on children, morals, and culture works well because it connects students to the stories that they read in their youth while helping them develop a better understanding of how literature can enhance our understanding of the meaning of childhood in culture and history.

The Byron Collection at the Museum of the City of New York is an archive of 22,000 photographs taken by The Byron Company—a prominent New York photography studio—between 1890 and 1942. The Byron photographers took as its subjects all manner of social life in and around New York; the collection includes private subjects (family portraits and home photographs), but the bulk of the collection documents public life and public institutions, many of which directly involved children. The photographs here portray the lives of children from all social classes – at play, at work, in hospitals, churches, schools, and many other contexts.

While the collection extends to 1942, the majority of images are from the turn of the last century, between the 1890s and the 1910s. The finely detailed visual quality of silver gelatin prints lends a hauntingly "real" quality to the images, which does justice to the frames crowded with numerous people and objects; in their enlarged state, especially if screened in a classroom, these photos not only attract attention, they almost demand it.

By searching for "children," "boys," and "girls," one will find thousands of photographs pertinent to the study of youth history. Children's recreational activities are well represented here; one can see boys and girls playing in the water at Coney Island, Atlantic City, Rockaway Beach, and other seaside spots; ice skating in Central Park; and racing or playing ball in various New York public playgrounds. Indeed, a teacher could use these photographs to good effect in a lesson about the rise of the public playground as a social institution that has evolved over the decades. In this photograph a child dangles from the sort of equipment that was later banished from playgrounds (like monkey bars) for being "too dangerous."

Children's homes are depicted in a wide variety of photographs from both the wealthy and poor positions in the social spectrum. A lesson on the daily lives of children from different economic classes could juxtapose "Social functions; children's party," in which a number of well-dressed children sit at the splendidly appointed dining table of a wealthy home, with "Slum interior, 1896." The collection boasts numerous images of wealthy children posed in and around their homes; a smaller number show children from the lower classes playing on street corners throughout New York City, from the Lower East Side up to Harlem.

One of this collection's strengths is its documentation of institutions created during the Progressive Era to serve children. An abundance of photographs portray scenes at the Children's Aid Society, the Emanuel Lehman Foundation for crippled children, the New York Foundling Hospital, the New York Association for the Blind, and various other schools, hospitals, and orphanages. Viewers can see interior images demonstrating the daily activities of the children in these institutions. Even the titles of these organizations are sometimes worthy tools in the study of history: "The School For Feeble-Minded Children" is a noteworthy relic of a time before Americans became concerned with sensitive language.

Another strength of the Byron Collection is its images of children at a variety of schools – exercising, studying, performing in theatrical events, and going on field trips. These photos include religious as well as secular schools. Besides the many neatly-posed photos of Sunday School classes from both Catholic and Protestant churches, there are some more candid photos that attest to the role of churches in teaching life skills; one photo, for example, shows children practicing sewing at St. Thomas' Chapel. Students of youth history will find much in these photographs to prompt considerations about the history of American education.

Unfortunately, the site's navigation system leaves a lot to be desired. Viewers have the option of searching the collection for "keywords," or of browsing a pre-selected sampling of subjects categorized by the museum (each subject, in that browsing function, includes a scant 20-30 pictures). More results will surface in the search function, but there is no index or site-map to show, at a glance, all the categories of available images. This lack of an index is one factor that makes the Byron Collection far less user-friendly than the Library of Congress's photograph collections.

Nor does the Byron Collection's search function reliably include words from the titles of the photographs. One can search only by keywords, not titles. This will pose problems for a teacher who locates an image he likes and then tries to access it later, in a classroom. Such images must be bookmarked when you find them – or else you will need to conduct the general search all over again, and wade through hundreds of hits. For example, photos from the aforementioned "The School For Feeble-Minded Children" can only be found in a general search for "school." Typing "feeble-minded" into the search box – or even just "feeble" – will yield nothing, because "school" is a subject keyword, but "feeble" isn't. A feeble-minded site design, indeed.

Despite these navigational headaches, the Byron Collection – with its wealth of photos of children of all social classes in a wide variety of circumstances and activities – is a valuable resource for studying the history of childhood in one of the most dynamic times and places of modern U.S. history. With enough preparation (and bookmarking), teachers can adapt this extensive resource to any lesson on American childhood in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Why I Taught the Source

Most state-level world history standards include study of primary sources and encourage the use of visual documents. Although students are surrounded by visual stimuli, they "look" but seldom "see." As a result, students often view photographs as snapshots of reality; they are more "true" because they capture "what really, really happened."

For historians, there are several ongoing debates about the periodization of childhood and its transformation over time. When did children become important and in what capacity? As economic contributors? As the focus of emotional attachment or as subjects prone sentimental idealization? As political symbols or pawns? The goals for this exercise are, therefore, two: to demonstrate how images are socially constructed and to begin to get a handle on the changing role of children in American society.

I use a print handout for this exercise. Detail is important in daguerreotype, and print's greater resolution preserves the image's subtleties and color. In contrast, computer monitors or LCD projectors blur details and shift color. So, a color handout is provided in PDF format.

How I Introduce the Source

My introduction to the source consists of two parts: the technical and the personal. Daguerreotypes were influenced by their technical requirements, so I take a little time to explain the history of daguerreotypes and how they were made. Experience has demonstrated that one of the easiest and most accessible methods is via a clip from the J. Paul Getty Museum (approx. 6 min.). Whatever the approach, it is important to emphasize several elements dictated by a daguerreotype's technical requirements.

First, the daguerreotype necessitated a relatively long exposure time; in other words, the photographer's subject had to sit still for an extended period of time. (You may want to have students attempt to maintain a smile for 20 seconds to demonstrate the difficulty of holding a pose for even a relatively short time; long exposure times also explain the absence of smiling sitters in early daguerreotypes.)

Second, even though daguerreotypes put personal images within the reach of many more people, they remained relatively expensive and reserved for those who could afford them.

Third, daguerreotypes were one-off images in that they could not be reproduced; a daguerreotype was not a negative that could be reprinted multiple times.

Fig. 2

Fourth, daguerreotypes were fragile; the image could be easily scratched. Because a daguerreotype was essentially a mirror, it could tarnish from exposure like a silver spoon. (See Fig. 2.)

Last but not least, a color daguerreotype was possible. For an additional cost, daguerreotype images could be hand-colored with special paints.

The personal part of the introduction draws on students' own experience and centers on the question: What do we, as human beings choose to remember with photographs? I ask students individually or in groups to think for several minutes and make a list of images they or their families keep. What photographs appear on the walls at home? In family photo albums? On social networking sites? The discussion generally turns up baby pictures, birthday parties, first communions, bar (bat) mitzvah parties, vacation snapshots, high school and college graduations, weddings, basic training or officer training completions or promotions, 50th wedding anniversaries, the unfortunate party photo, and so on. (For some ethnic groups, the memorial or postmortem photograph is still common, and it is worth noting this phenomenon.)

As the students or groups make their contributions, the list goes up on the board or on-screen. Once the lists are complete, I want the students to differentiate between professional and amateur images in order to maintain the parallel between daguerreotypes and contemporary studio photographs, so I ask students to determine which of their photographic choices were taken in a studio or by a professional photographer. Their selections go in second, smaller list. Once the latter list is complete, we discuss the elements common to the people or events captured in the images (milestones, achievements, celebrations) and what events are missing from the list (people at work).

We finish the discussion with two final questions: What does analysis of the lists tell us about what people in the late 20th and early 21st century choose to remember? And, more specifically, what do we choose to remember about children and youth? With that, we shift centuries and turn to the daguerreotypes.

Reading the Source

Fig. 3

I've approached reading the sources by asking the students to work both individually and in groups, and either strategy works well. Usually the size of the class dictates whether group or individual work will be most effective. In either case, I begin by asking students to note who and what is in each of the images. What are the sitters wearing? How would you characterize the clothing? If there two people, do they lean toward one another or away? How are their arms or hands posed? Where are the subjects looking? Are there any objects in the portraits?

Once we have established what is in the photographs, we move onto more abstract considerations.

Fig. 1

• What can we make of the hat in Fig. 3?
• What does the clothing suggest about the social class of the sitters? (Note the gloves in Fig. 3.)
• Why, for example in Fig. 3, might flowers be associated with girls?
• What do the flowers contribute to ideas about girls, in Fig. 1? Or, do they appear in the image for a different reason?
• What does the boy's association with animals in Fig. 4 suggest?
• How do the colorized images add to our understanding of the sitters' social class?

There are also elements in the images that are ambiguous and underscore the limits to historical inquiry. Is the donkey in Fig. 4 a pet or a working animal? We don't know without corroborating evidence. Is there evidence solely from the image to support either claim? If not, how would you go about finding evidence for your claim?

Fig. 4

Reflections

To reflect, I ask the class to return to our discussion about contemporary photographs and articulate what has changed (or not) with regard to the depiction of childhood and youth in photographs from roughly 1840 to the present. What usually emerges from the discussion are observations and arguments supporting the importance of children and their central place in family history and photographic memory in both centuries. Students are also apt to view both contemporary and 19th-century children's photographs no longer as simple images but as constructs, encapsulating gender definitions and class distinctions. Students also note the transformations; namely, an increased emphasis on adolescence (proms, school graduations, athletics), an absence of postmortem or mortuary photographs, a greater informality in dress and pose, and few if any images of children or youth at work.

Last but not least, I pass out 4x6 note cards and ask students to write a paragraph in which they make a brief argument—including a thesis and two pieces of evidence in support of their proposition—about childhood in the 19th century based on the daguerreotypes. Alternately, I ask them to post an argument paragraph to their blogs.

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, the little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books found their way there, Mother's easy chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest sketches, and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the needle was 'so heavy', and put it down forever. Talking wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong, and though she said little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and 'tried not to be a trouble'. All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.

Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life -- uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which 'smell sweet, and blossom in the dust', the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible to all.

One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, Pilgrims's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.

"Poor Jo! She's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave. She shows me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this", thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.

MY BETH

Sitting patient in the shadow
Till the blessed light shall come,
A serene and saintly presence
Sanctifies our troubled home.
Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
Break like ripples on the strand
Of the deep and solemn river
Where her willing feet now stand.

O my sister, passing from me,
Out of human care and strife,
Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
Which have beautified your life.
Dear, bequeath me that great patience
Which has power to sustain
A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
In its prison-house of pain.

Give me, for I need it sorely,
Of that courage, wise and sweet,
Which has made the path of duty
Green beneath your willing feet.
Give me that unselfish nature,
That with charity divine
Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake --
Meek heart, forgive me mine!

Thus our parting daily loseth
Something of its bitter pain,
And while learning this hard lesson,
My great loss becomes my gain.
For the touch of grief will render
My wild nature more serene,
Give to life new aspirations,
A new trust in the unseen.

Henceforth, safe across the river,
I shall see forever more
A beloved, household spirit
Waiting for me on the shore.
Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
Guardian angels shall become,
And the sister gone before me
By their hands shall lead me home.

Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.

"Oh, Beth, so much, so much!" And Jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's.

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it's too late to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let you go, but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."

"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail them, and if it's hard to work alone, remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the go easy."

"I'll try, Beth." And then and there Jo renounced her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love.

So the spring days came and went , the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the 'tide went out easily', and in the dark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out, Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.

"That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

"How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.

"I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding."

"Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

"You needn't be so rude, it's only a 'lapse of lingy', as Mr. Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder.

"I need it so much. I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag money for a month."

"In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" And Meg looked sober.

"Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop."

"Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls." And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.

"Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them, and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know."

"How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse."

"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes?"

"Not much. You may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."

"Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering for one."

Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to treat circulated through her 'set', and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about 'some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed 'that Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any."

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved. Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a schoolgirl, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear". The word 'limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.

"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

"Miss March, come to the desk."

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

"Don't take all." whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.

"Is that all?"

"Not quite," stammered Amy.

"Bring the rest immediately."

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

"You are sure there are no more?"

"I never lie, sir."

"So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window."

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This -- this was too much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner . . .

"Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand."

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with 'old Davis', as, of course, he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.

"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received, and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.

"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic figure before them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought, "I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!"

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last, and the word 'Recess!' had never seemed so welcome to her before.

"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and Hannah shook her fist at the 'villain' and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates, but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy's property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as if she shook that dust of the place off her feet.

"Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth," said Mrs. March that evening. "I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else."

"That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

"I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?" cried Amy.

"I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her mother, "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a milder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty."

"So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told her."

"I wish I'd known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

"You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, "Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"

"Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her mother.

"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.

"Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so much."

"I see. It's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.

"These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display them," said Mrs. March.

"Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh.