I read a fascinating article in The New Yorker yesterday about the birth of children’s collections at libraries and the publication of E.B. White’s Stuart Little. Check it out. In the article, we see a librarian strive to welcome children into the New York Public Library. She gives them the right to check books out, lots of nice books, and a charming room in which to read them. She revolutionizes libraries’ attitudes toward children. And then she becomes a dictator. Her reviews are powerful, able to squash children’s writers like bugs. She refuses to give up control of her library, even well into her eighties. She tangles with E.B. White.

I haven’t read Stuart Little in years, and never knew that it stirred up such a fuss. The librarian, Anne Carroll Moore, tried to stop its publication. After hassling White for years to write a children’s book, she suddenly stomped on the brakes. One of the book’s greatest sins, she said, was that it mixed realism with fantasy. Children, she said, would be confused. Imagine how silly such an objection would seem today.

I was interested to learn that Stuart, in the first version of the book, was born. In the second version, he “arrived” at his parents’ place. I do remember, when I was a child reader, wondering where Stuart came from.

(As a complete aside, one of my favorite Renaissance ballads is about a woman who gives birth to 365 mice-sized babies, one for each day of the year. The Renaissance is weird and awesome!)

Inspired by all of these mice-related thoughts, I picked up The Tale of Despereaux. Such a perfect book. So simple, tender, and understanding. Beautifully written—like a clear stone through which you can see a lot of light.