Phoebe's Revolt Read online

  Acknowledgments

  Several illustrations have been modified for this edition. Copyright © 1968 by Natalie Babbitt. All rights reserved. Published by arrangement with Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc., 19 Union Square West, New York, N.Y. 10003.

  For M.F.B.

  with all my heart

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Roundtable Discussion

  Credits

  About the Author

  Glossary array/maintain

  Notes

  Copyright Page

  Phoebe Euphemia1 Brandon Brown

  Lived in a fancy house in town.

  She lived there quite alone unless

  You count Miss Trout, her governess,

  The butler, cook, and maids in force,

  And Mr. and Mrs. Brown, of course,

  And Phoebe’s kitten Elihu 2

  And her Aunt Celeste, who lived there too.

  Good fortune smiled on Phoebe Brown,

  But revolution brought her down.

  The times (the year was nineteen-four),

  The clothes that everybody wore,

  The way that people like the Browns

  Were living, in our larger towns,

  And Phoebe’s way of being prone

  To having notions of her own—

  All these were more or less to blame

  For Phoebe’s crime and Phoebe’s shame.

  In nineteen-four, at any rate,

  Phoebe Euphemia Brown was eight.

  The trouble all began in June

  While getting dressed one afternoon.

  For Phoebe, who was mostly good

  And often did the things she should,

  Stepped forward in her underwear

  With mingled passion and despair

  And loudly said she hated bows

  And roses on her slipper toes

  And dresses made of fluff and lace

  With frills and ruffles every place

  And ribbons, stockings, sashes, curls

  And everything to do with girls.

  She said she had just one request:

  To dress the way her father dressed,

  In simple white and sober black

  Unornamented front and back.

  And yet the clothes that Phoebe wore

  Were normal back in nineteen-four

  And other little girls in fluff

  All seemed to be content enough.

  Unhampered by the current styles,

  They went about with happy smiles

  To picnics, teas, parades and such

  And did not seem to mind it much.

  Now Phoebe’s mother tried her best

  And so did Phoebe’s Aunt Celeste.

  They both maintained that little girls

  Looked sweet with ribbons in their curls.

  They often spoke of one such child

  Who dressed correctly, yet who smiled.

  They spoke, while Phoebe made a face,

  Of Phoebe’s little cousin Grace—

  How mild she was, and how polite,

  How charming in her pink and white.

  But “Prissy Prig” was Phoebe’s name

  For little Grace, and when she came

  To visit as she often did,

  Then Phoebe often ran and hid.

  Well, Phoebe’s mother was distressed

  And so was Phoebe’s Aunt Celeste.

  And poor Miss Trout, who had to stay

  With Phoebe every single day

  And get her dressed and fix her hair,

  Was nearly driven to despair.

  But Phoebe’s father only smiled

  And said she was a novel child.

  One morning at their breakfast tea

  They all were trying manfully

  To disregard the wails of gloom

  That filtered down from Phoebe’s room.

  (Like “Do I have to put on that?”

  And “I don’t want to wear a hat!”

  With Miss Trout’s voice, a little shrill:

  “Now, Phoebe, please! You must hold still!”)

  That morning, though her nerves were taut,

  Poor Phoebe’s mother had a thought.

  “We’ll give a party! Every chum

  of Phoebe’s will be sure to come

  In pretty clothes. Why, then she’ll see

  She’s acting very foolishly.

  She’ll change her mind, I’m sure, Celeste,

  And want to be like all the rest.”

  But Phoebe’s father shook his head.

  “I’m not so sure …” was all he said.

  They planned the party anyway

  And sent out notes that very day.

  The maids put flowers everywhere

  And Phoebe’s mother hired a bear

  That danced when certain tunes were played,

  And Cook made cakes and lemonade.

  The time came round. Eight little girls

  Arrived, all ribbons, lace and curls.

  And Mrs. Brown and Aunt Celeste

  Stood greeting every little guest.

  But where was Phoebe? Minutes passed.

  They knew the awful truth at last

  When came the voice of poor Miss Trout:

  “She’s in the tub and won’t get out!”

  “She’s in the tub and won’t get out!”

  The news was whispered all about.

  Phoebe’s mother clutched her hair,

  Turned pale, and hurried up the stair,

  And Aunt Celeste went running too,

  In hopes it wasn’t really true.

  But in the bathtub Phoebe sat.

  She would not move, and that was that.

  There hung her dress, all pink chiffon.

  She said she would not put it on.

  They told her how her friends were dressed,

  But Phoebe Brown was not impressed.

  They told about the dancing bear.

  She answered that she didn’t care.

  They mentioned shame and protocol

  But Phoebe Brown was deaf to all.

  She said, “I will not wear that dress.

  I won’t come down at all unless …”

  She stirred the water with her toes—

  “Unless I wear my father’s clothes.”

  At this her mother’s patience died.

  “I do not trust myself!” she cried.

  She turned away and went to bed

  And wrapped cold cloths around her head,

  While Auntie, with an angry cough,

  Went down and called the party off.

  The guests went home without their play.

  The dancing bear was sent away.

  And in the bathtub, unconsoled,

  The water slowly turning cold,

  With wrinkling toes and fingertips,

  Miss Phoebe sat and chewed her lips.

  The afternoon had come and gone,

  The lamps were lit, the curtains drawn,

  When Phoebe’s father, walking in,

  Was told about his daughter’s sin.

  He was a most resourceful man

  And right away he had a plan.

  He fetched an armload from his room

  And went to work his daughter’s doom

  Where in the bathtub, cold and wet,

  That stubborn child was sitting yet.

  “Hop out,” he said. “The storm has passed.

  I’ve come to save the day at last.

  You say you want to wear my clothes?

  It is surprising, I suppose,

  But still, I’ve got some things to spare

  That I’d be more than glad to share.”

  And the
re they were, her just deserts:3

  One of his own fine evening shirts,

  A starchy collar, white cravat,

  And last of all, a tall silk hat.

  Her father’s clothes! And yet—somehow—

  They didn’t seem so lovely now.

  The charm had paled. The lure was gone.

  But Phoebe had to put them on.

  Yes, Phoebe had to put them on.

  Too late for lace and pink chiffon.

  She had her father’s clothes instead—

  For seven days, her father said.

  He had so nicely said she could,

  She knew she must, she felt she should.

  She couldn’t spurn that hat and shirt

  And have him get his feelings hurt.

  So Phoebe wore her father’s clothes.

  They looked peculiar, heaven knows,

  But those amused by this array

  Would kindly look the other way

  Or step behind a potted fern

  Till feeling more controlled and stern.

  And when the seven days had passed

  And she could take them off at last,

  Miss Phoebe left her father’s clothes

  And reassumed her lace and bows

  And never said a single word

  (At least, that anybody heard).

  But Phoebe’s father poked around

  In trunks and boxes till he found

  A faded picture framed in pearl,

  The picture of a little girl;

  A little girl dressed head to toe

  In funny clothes from long ago

  And on her face an awful frown.

  That little girl was Mrs. Brown

  And eighteen-eighty was the date,

  The year that Mrs. Brown was eight.

  He brought it down and let it stand

  Demurely on the parlor grand.4

  And what did Mrs. Brown do then ?

  She turned away and took her pen

  And wrote her seamstress on the spot:

  “Please come at once—I quite forgot—

  My daughter Phoebe needs a dress,

  In broadcloth or in serge, 5 I guess—

  A simple sailor dress or two

  In sober, modest navy blue.

  And when you’re done, and if you’re free,

  You might make one or two for me.”

  Phoebe Euphemia Brandon Brown

  Lived in a fancy house in town.

  She dressed in ruffles, chin to hem,

  When circumstance demanded them,

  But otherwise and normally

  She dressed much more informally.

  Roundtable Discussion

  1. In the beginning of the story, you are told of “Phoebe’s crime and Phoebe’s shame.” Do you think what Phoebe does is a “crime”? Why or why not?

  2. Do you think Phoebe is right to behave the way she does? Can you think of another way she could have solved the problem she had with her clothes?

  3. What might have happened if Phoebe had worn her father’s clothes to her party?

  4. Phoebe wants something she cannot have. Why do you think she wants it anyway? Why do people often want things they cannot have?

  5. How important is it to act the way people expect you to? How important is it to be different?

  The story of Phoebe’s revolt is told in rhyme. Before you read the author’s verses, read the rhyming lines below. They will put you in the proper mood.

  Do you do what you’ve been told?

  Are you always self-controlled?

  Should you act like all the others—

  Cousins, fathers, friends, or mothers?

  Could you stand up to the crowd

  And announce your thoughts aloud?

  Would you act like Phoebe Brown

  Or just sigh and simply frown?

  Something about Phoebe Euphemia Brandon Brown’s life simply doesn’t suit her. When Phoebe decides what she doesn’t like, she also decides what must be done—she must revolt. She’ll tell all the people in charge that things have got to change! Now! But how?

  Credits

  Photography Thomas Victor: p. 44.

  About the Author

  Natalie Babbitt Natalie Babbitt was born in 1932, in Dayton, Ohio. As a youngster, she spent most of her free time reading and drawing. Later she studied art at Smith College. Babbitt worked as an illustrator before she became a writer. She did not begin writing until her children were in school.

  “The main characters in my stories tend to be me,” Babbitt says. The names of her characters are very important. When she is writing a book, Babbitt sits around with the phone book and the thesaurus, looking for good names.

  Babbitt always thinks a book out in her head before she writes it down. Because of the great care she takes, it took her ten years to write her book The Eyes of the Amaryllis. But not all of her books take that long! Her other books include The Search for Delicious, Tuck Everlasting, and Goody Hall. In addition to writing, Babbitt enjoys crossword puzzles, bad storms, needlework, and her several pets.

  Glossary array/maintain

  A

  ar•ray ( r’) 1. An impressive display or collection. 2. Splendid clothing: For the holidays, they dressed in their finest array.

  C

  chif•fon (sh fn’) or (shf’ n’) A soft, sheer, airy fabric of silk or rayon, used for scarfs, veils, or dresses.

  cra•vat (kr vt’) A necktie or a scarf worn as a tic.

  D

  de•mure (d myr’) Shy or modest, sometimes falsely so.—de•mure’ ly.

  de•spair (d spâr’) Lack of all hope: The child watched in despair as her toy boat sank.

  doom (doom) An unhappy end, especially death: The sailor thought he would meet his doom in the storm.

  L

  lure (loor) Something that attracts, especially with the promise of pleasure or a reward.

  M

  main•tain (man tn’) 1. To keep up; continue. 2. To declare to be true; to

  pat / pay / â care / ä father / pet / be / pit / pie / î fierce / pot / go / ô paw, for / oi oil /

  book / boot / ou out / cut / û fur / th the / th thin / hw which / zh vision /

  ago, item, pencil, atom, circus

  Copyright © 1986 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Definitions and pronunciation key adapted and reprinted by permission from The American Heritage Student’s Dictionary.

  mingled/spurn say firmly: The boy stubbornly maintained that he was right.

  min•gled (mng’ gld) Mixed: I looked forward to the start of school with a mingled sense of excitement and worry.

  N

  nov•el (nv’l) Very new, unusual, or different: This novel machine can beat eggs and slice meat.

  P

  par•lor (pär’ lr) A room for entertaining visitors: When company came, they had tea in the parlor.

  prone (prn) Likely (to act or feel a certain way); tending: I am prone to giggling when I am tired.

  pro•to•col (pr’ t kôl’) or (-kl’) or (-kl’) Rules about ceremony and social behavior: Protocol demands that we stand when the judge enters the court room.

  R

  re•as•sume (r sm’) To take up again; put on again: John reassumed the job he had last year.

  re•source•ful (r sôrs’ fl) or (-srs’-) Clever and imaginative, especially in finding ways to deal with a difficult situation: The resourceful cook made a delicious meal from leftovers.

  S

  spurn (spurn) To refuse or reject with scorn: He spurned my kind offer of help.

  taut/unornamental

  T

  taut (tôt) Pulled or drawn tight: Pull the rope to make it taut.

  U

  un•con•soled (n’ kn sld’) Not comforted during a time of disappointment or unhappiness.

  un•ham•pered (n hm’ prd) Not preventing freedom of movement: The loose-fitting clothing allowed her to dance unhampered.

  un.or.na.men.ted (n or�
� n men’ td) Without jewelry or decoration; simple in design: Would you like an unornamented picture frame or a fancier kind?

  pat / pay / â care / ä father / pet / be / pit / pie / î fierce / pot / go / ô paw, for / oi oil /

  book / boot / ou out / cut / û fur / th the / th thin / hw which / zh vision /

  ago, item, pencil, atom, circus

  Notes

  1 Phoebe Euphemia (f’ be y f’ m ).

  2 Elihu (l’ i hy ).

  3 just deserts: reward or punishment that is deserved.

  4 grand: grand piano.

  5 broadcloth or in serge: plain woolen fabrics.

  Copyright © 1989 by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Houghton Mifflin Company unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. Address inquiries to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, One Beacon Street, Boston, MA 02108.

  eISBN 9781429954785

  First eBook Edition : July 2011