Our July free read is a short story by an author who may be new to you. Margaret Marshall Saunders was a Canadian writer of children’s stories and a passionate advocate for animal welfare. She was thirty-two years old and just starting her writing career in earnest when her novel Beautiful Joe was published in 1893 under her pen name “Marshall Saunders.” The book quickly became a worldwide bestseller and made history as the first book by a Canadian author to sell over a million copies.
Margaret Saunders was a talented writer, and when she submitted her short story “It Might Have Been” to Isabella Alden for publication in The Pansy magazine, the story must have touched Isabella’s heart.
Margaret Marshall Saunders with her dog, Billie Sunday.
Like the character of Ella Crouse in the story, Isabella had a temper! Throughout her life Isabella candidly shared times when her quick flare-ups and uncontrolled anger often got the best of her, leading to situations she later regretted. It’s easy to see how she identified with Margaret Saunders’ beautifully written story. She undoubtedly knew that this tale of regret and sisterly love would resonate deeply with her readers.
Published in the June 1895 issue of The Pansy, “It Might Have Been” by Margaret Marshall Saunders is a lovely short story that reminds us that building character is a slow process—earned through daily patience, forgiveness, and love.
Ella and her sister, Jessie, are opposites in every way. While Jessie is calm and fragile, Ella possesses a fierce, volatile temper that she struggles to master. One chaotic morning, a minor misunderstanding over a pair of gloves escalates into a passionate argument that Ella regrets. But when an unexpected crisis strikes the family later that day, Ella is forced to confront the terrifying reality of what might have been if she never got the chance to say “I’m sorry.”
Dwight L. Moody was one of the most beloved evangelists of the nineteenth century, who preached to millions on both sides of the Atlantic. For Isabella Alden, Mr. Moody was more than a famous name; he was part of her world.
Dwight Lyman Moody (portrait by Edward Clifford)
The connection ran deep in her family. Isabella’s uncle, Horatio Spafford, was a close personal friend of Mr. Moody’s, a supporter of his evangelistic campaigns, and a fellow laborer in Chicago’s Christian community. It was a personal letter from Moody (then preaching in Europe) that invited Horatio and his family to join him in England in 1873, a voyage that ended in tragedy and gave the world the hymn “It Is Well With My Soul.” Mr. Moody himself traveled to be with the grieving Spaffords in the aftermath of that loss. (You can read more about that here.)
Closer to home, Mr. Moody was a contributor to Isabella’s own work. In 1897 — the same year he was writing these monthly Bible lessons for a popular women’s magazine — he contributed a piece on prayer meetings to a Christian magazine Isabella edited, a collaboration that speaks to the mutual respect and shared mission between them.
What makes lesson nine of Mr. Moody’s Bible Class so interesting is that its central message was one Isabella had been sharing for decades in her stories and novels. Mr. Moody teaches that love is not a feeling reserved for the lovable — it is the very essence of God, extended unconditionally to the unworthy, and expressed in small acts of grace that leave impressions that last a lifetime.
If you have read any of Isabella’s novels, you’ll recognize that theme immediately. Her stories are populated with difficult people — the prickly neighbor, the harried, impatient mother, the unlovable child, the proud and self-righteous churchgoer — and her heroes and heroines choose to love them anyway, to speak a kind word, and to see the person beneath the surface. Isabella was writing fiction; Mr. Moody was preaching theology; but they were both saying the same thing.
In his ninth Bible class, Mr. Moody explains how God’s love differs from man’s love, and he shares the ultimate way in which we can show our love for God in return.
In 1892 Isabella Alden—writing under her pseudonym, Pansy—was one of the most popular fiction authors in the U.S. Her novels were translated into multiple languages and sold around the world. A “Pansy book” was guaranteed to occupy an honored place on bookstore and library shelves.
She wasn’t alone on the best-seller lists. At that time the literary world was dominated by books like:
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde The Sign of the Four by Arthur Conan Doyle Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
These novels were praised for their new “realistic” writing style that featured characters and plots that were “true to life.” By comparison, some critics complained the characters in Isabella’s books were “too good to be true” and her themes were “sentimental.”
Isabella clapped back.
She wrote an essay for a Christian magazine titled “How to Read a Story.” In it, she fiercely defended her work and taught a master class on how a Christian should select and read fiction. Her essay gives us a wonderful insight into Isabella’s philosophy as a writer—and the high expectations she had for her audience.
Read Isabella’s essay below. When you’re finished, continue on to see how her 134-year-old words still hold true today and perfectly describe one of her most famous characters.
HOW TO READ A STORY
BY “PANSY”
My complete subject is: “How to read a story so as to get the most good out of it.” Let me emphasize the thought involved; first choose your story. There are stories which are not and cannot by any process be made helpful. Busy young people, at least, have a right to the best.
Of course there is a difference of opinion as to what is the best, and perhaps the first thing to be done in order to get help from a story is to decide why it should be helpful. We hear a great deal about realistic writers, or those who picture life as it is. At first thought these seem to be the ones whom we should choose for helpfulness, because of what use is it to study a life which is not helpful? But a closer look shows you that there are two sides to this question. The police reports, the murder trials, the accounts of bar-room fights, and the like, are intensely realistic; but why should we grovel in such scenes as these, merely because they are too sadly true to life?
We hear a great deal about sentimental writers, until some of us are in danger of learning to think that sentiment of any sort is a very weak and offensive thing. The fact is, there is a vast difference between sentiment and sentimentalism, and we young people must learn to discriminate between them. For instance, the sentiment of love is ennobling, uplifting, immortal in its power; but the sentimentalism of love which makes a parade of its outward forms—dishes them up for silly readers, giving to the public words and caresses which should be held in sacred privacy—merits our stern disgust. To discriminate between them is what we want to learn.
It has become a fashion of the present day to sneer at what is called the “goody-goody” book; by which too often is meant the book written with an evident purpose to accomplish good in the world. But whatever others may say, of course no Christian reader will be found sneering at the book which was “written for a purpose,” for without a purpose worthy of an immortal, what right has one to write, or one to read, who is pledged to “try to do, every day, just what Jesus would like to have him do?”
Only yesterday a young lady, speaking of a character in a well known book, said, “He is too good—unnaturally good; there never lived a man like him.”
Did there not, dear friend? Have you forgotten the man Christ Jesus, who came to be our example?
I take it, young friends, that if there be a legitimate realm for fiction in a Christian’s life, it is found in an earnest attempt to portray, and an earnest effort to study, a character which represents not what most people are, but what people might become who tried to live each day a life hid with Christ in God. When next you hear the cry of “unnaturalness” raised against a book or character, try to learn whether it should be unnatural, or whether it is not your privilege to live just as round and full and beautiful a life as that.
Well, we have chosen our story; how shall we read it?
“How not to do it, is the first rule to apply,” said a young reader to whom I appealed the other day. And when I further questioned, he explained, “Why, don’t plunge in, and read for twelve consecutive hours, straight through. If you do, you will feel at the close as if you had been to a three days’ circus, and on the whole you will be disgusted with the performance. I have discovered it to be a good plan to lay aside a story as soon as I have found I don’t want to … I do not want a story-book to be my master.” I think so many stories get out of their proper place in our lives.
Do you ever try to study a writer’s power over you? To define what pleases you in the story? Why you want to read it? I think that is one of the ways of making a story helpful.
“I mark books freely,” said one young reader who reads to good purpose, “stories as well as other matter. I mark the passages which thrilled me, and go carefully over them when the story is finished, to discover, if I can, why they thrilled, and whether, on sober second reading, they still have that power. Moreover, it is not much of a book which does not give you one or two thoughts that you want to remember and quote for the benefit or pleasure of others.”
Sometimes we get good out of a story by carefully studying the characters whom we admire, and discovering why we admire them. If we find that in certain situations their conduct has been admirable, and that in like situations we should be tempted to act differently, we can use this story to forewarn and forearm ourselves against a future temptation. The reverse of this proposition is also true. I remember reading, years ago, a story in which I disliked a certain character. A careful analysis of my reason and a little careful thinking developed within me the astounding thought that I was often guilty of the same line of conduct, though I had never realized it before.
I would have you learn to note with exceeding care the effect which a story is having on you as you read. Does life seem to you a better, nobler, grander thing as you read of its dealings with these creatures of fiction? Do you admire true courage and unselfishness more? Do you feel more eager than ever to overcome within you that which mars your usefulness and cripples your influence? Do you rise up from its pages feeling stronger to do that day’s’ duties, however small; to bear that day’s crosses, however irksome? Then indeed such a story may be to you a voice from the King himself urging you to higher and better endeavor in his service.
But if, on the other hand, as you read, the every-day commonplace life that you are called upon to live grows petty to you, grows irksome; if sin in any form looks less appalling to you because your story has awakened some weak interest in the sinner; if, in short, God, and duty, and endeavor in His name and for His sake seem less important and less inviting because of the story you are reading, let me beg you to put the book from you as unworthy of the thought of an immortal soul.
In her essay Isabella wrote, “Sometimes we get good out of a story by carefully studying the characters we admire, and discovering why we admire them.”
Were truer words ever written? Isabella wasn’t just lecturing readers about an impossible standard—she shared her secret for creating enduring fiction. Her books still have the power to make readers examine their own lives, leaving us feeling “stronger to handle our daily duties [and] to bear that day’s crosses.” Perhaps more importantly, her stories showed us “what people might become who tried to live each day a life hid with Christ in God.”
Ester Ried is one of Isabella’s most beloved characters because she fulfills that exact role. Ester’s struggles with a never-ending to-do list, financial worries, and family friction feels incredibly modern because we still wrestle with the very same problems today.
Isabella also wrote that sometimes we can learn from the reverse, by looking at a character we dislike and realizing “we share the exact same flaws.”
This also applies to Ester Ried. Ester wanted a deeper spiritual life, but she was too tired, too cynical, and too overwhelmed by her daily “crosses” to find it. We readers might initially judge Ester’s grumbling attitude, until we realize we often handle our own busy, stressful lives with the same grumbling spirit.
Ester’s eventual transformation isn’t an overnight miracle that makes her rich or takes away her chores. Instead, the grace Ester finds altersher heart toward her daily duties. Because Isabella grounded Ester in real human emotion, Ester’s journey still inspires us to find that same grace in our own hectic lives.
What do you think of Isabella’s essay?
When you first read Ester Ried, did you see your own daily frustrations reflected in her? How did her journey help you look at your own “every-day commonplace life” with fresh eyes?
What other Pansy novels have you read that served as a mirror that made you examine your own life?
This month’s free read is a short story Isabella wrote for an 1876 issue of The Pansy magazine about Janie Smith, a miller’s daughter who can’t help comparing her own plain life with another girl’s seemingly charmed one.
Janie Smith has never ridden the stage coach, never seen the city, and never owned anything half so fine as the traveling costume Miss Josephine Jennings wears. Watching the elegant young heiress board the train one morning, Janie can’t help but feel the world has been very unfair. But the express-man’s quiet words — “Poor little thing!” — are about to change everything Janie thinks she knows about fairness and God’s blessings.
Because of her popularity as an author of both Christian novels and Presbyterian Sunday school lessons, Isabella Alden was often invited to speak at churches, women’s groups, and community events. She and her husband, Rev. G. R. Alden, did their best to accept as many invitations as possible. During the years they lived in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York, they frequently traveled up and down the mid-Atlantic states, going from one engagement to another.
One of their favorite places to visit was Asbury Park, New Jersey. Accompanied by Isabella’s sister and brother-in-law, and niece Grace, the Alden’s enjoyed church services held in the open air of the Asbury Park Auditorium.
The Seaside Sabbath School at Asbury Park, from a sketch in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, August 1881.
On the first Sunday of the summer every year, Isabella would formally open the Sabbath school program for children, often assisted by her husband.
from the Brooklyn Standard Union, June 22, 1892
One of their trips to Asbury Park was particularly memorable, and Isabella described what happened in an article for her young readers in The Pansy magazine.
On the beach at Asbury Park in 1875 (New York Public Library).
As you read Isabella’s account below, you’ll notice it takes an unexpected turn at the end. What begins as a fascinating rescue story becomes a temperance lesson—a reminder of how differently some writers approached storytelling in the 1880s and how central the temperance movement was to Christian writers and publishers of that time.
I’m not going to tell you about Asbury Park; at least not much. Some other time I may say a good deal about this pretty city by the sea, but just now I’m anxious to tell of what happened at night. The day had been pleasant enough; not summer, but late spring, bright and sunshiny; we rejoiced over the thought of getting sight of the beautiful beach; reminding each other how lovely the sea looked by moonlight.
Alas, there was no moon for us that night! At least she did not once show her silver face; instead, the sky was black with clouds, and the sea took on its sullen look, and roared as it lashed the shore constantly with great angry waves. We shivered and tugged at our wraps as the wind tried to whirl them away, and said, as we turned to go home, how glad we were that we had no friends at sea.
“The ocean looks cruel,” said Grace; “I don’t like him tonight.”
The Atlantic Ocean off Asbury Park in 1907
Then we went home to our bright room; drew the curtains, closed the shutters, stirred the fire to a cheery blaze, and chatted and laughed and were happy, quite shutting out the roar of the angry sea.
But he did not calm; the waves ran high, and the sullen roar kept increasing, until, by midnight, we knew it was what seamen call a gale. Occasionally we heard the fog bell toll out, and once more we were glad that we had no dear ones at sea.
Somebody had, though; and while we slept quietly, knowing nothing of it, brave men were awake and at work. A danger signal was seen just off shore; what excitement there was! How did the men of the life-saving crew know that they were needed? They had been disbanded for the summer, the dangerous season being supposed to be over; and here was blowing one of the worst storms of the winter! I don’t know how they heard the news. Their hearts waked and watched, perhaps; anyway, they came, great stalwart men, and in a twinkling opened their boathouse, and got out their apparatus which had been carefully put away, and before the third signal went up through the stormy water, were ready for action.
A windy day on the pier in 1905 (New York Public Library)
I don’t know how they did it. At this time of which I write, they had no regular lifeboat such as is now in use; they were not regularly manned for work in any way. Never mind, they did it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Oh, I do not know how many people rode, some way, over the stormy water, on a rope, and reached the shore. Drenched, powerless, almost breathless, yet alive!
Who do you think was one of the first to arrive that night? Why, a little baby less than three months old! What! She did not cling to ropes! Oh, no. All she did was to lie in utmost quiet in the hands of a great strong man; he was lashed to the rope in such a way that the men on shore could pull him in, but the baby he held in his two strong hands, as high above the fury of the waves as the hands would reach. What if he had dropped her? Then the sea would have swallowed her in an instant! An awful journey, but the baby did not know it. She must have gasped a little for breath, and she may have cried, but no one heard her; the roaring ocean took care of that.
You don’t see how she lived through it? They did not think she could; not even the mother, when she took a second to kiss her, before she gave her into the strong arms, thought that she should ever see her darling again. But it was the only possible way of escape; they could but try.
So the baby rode into shore, and I think as many as a hundred mothers stood waiting to receive her, with hot blankets enough to smother her, and warm milk enough to drown her in; for it had gotten abroad in some way that a baby was on board the sinking ship. If you could have heard the shout that went up when the baby was landed in the arms of one mother, who said, after a second of solemn hush: “Yes, she is living!” you would have felt as though you almost knew what a life was worth.
The next morning what a walk we had along the coast! How still the sea lay; the waves crept up softly one after another as if so ashamed of their last night’s work that they would rather not be seen or heard at all. Bits of board, and old tarred rope, and barrel staves and seaweed lined the beach for miles, and coffee sacks by the hundred kept washing in to shore. The vessel had been laden with coffee.
People were very busy putting the beach in order, planning how to reach the wreck, wondering whether she could be gotten off, or would have to lie half-buried in the sand and slowly fall to pieces. Here and there were groups of people, listening, while one man talked excitedly; he was a sailor and had his wonderful story to tell of danger and escape.
Shipwreck in a Rocky Bay, 1904
But the happiest man on the beach that morning was one who rubbed his hands in actual glee, and smiling broadly on every one who came up to him, would say in a loud, glad voice:
“Yes, I lost everything I had in the world, but my wife and children are all here; yes, baby and all!” and then he would wipe the great tears from his eyes, and laugh so loud and glad a laugh that all the people around would have to join in.
All his children safe! They clustered around him, several sturdy-looking boys, and I watched them with eager interest. Were they all safe? Could the father be sure? The ocean had not swallowed them, but suppose some awful rum saloon caught them in its clutches and drew them in until they went down in a storm of drunkenness to utter ruin! What was an ocean storm to that? Pitiless ocean, rave as it might, could not touch the soul; but the rum saloon has power to destroy both body and soul.
What joy there was over the three-months-old baby! And yet she may live to be a drunkard’s wife, or a drunkard’s mother, and to cry out in bitterness of soul because the ocean did not swallow her flint night. Isn’t it strange and sad to think of? The father thought his children safe, and yet sit many oceans of temptation lay ready to engulf them! none more bitter, more fierce, more wide-spread in its raging, than this ocean of alcohol. Dear boys and girls, what can we do to help save the children for their fathers? Will you all join the life-saving crew, and work with a will, to rescue victims from this ocean?
Pansy
Isabella’s abrupt shift from celebrating the baby’s rescue to warning about “the ocean of alcohol” might feel a little jarring to us today, but it reflects the deep anxiety many families felt about alcohol in the 1880s—when alcohol contained some highly-addictive ingredients.
And she never missed an opportunity to teach. She couldn’t tell a story about saving a baby from the sea without thinking about all the other ways children needed saving—and she used her platform as “Pansy” to rally her young readers to join the temperance fight.
You can read more about alcohol’s secret ingredients in the nineteenth century by following these links:
In honor of Mother’s Day this month’s free read is a story about the debt of love we owe to those who raised us.
After a life of sacrifice, widowed Mrs. Kensett finds her twilight years spent shuffling between the homes of her adult children, where she’s treated more like a burden than a beloved guest. She expects more of the same when she arrives at the doorstep of her youngest son and his new bride—only to find an unexpected sanctuary at long last.
While April 15 marked the celebration of National Library Outreach Day, many long-time book lovers still remember it by its original name: National Bookmobile Day. No matter the name, it’s a day to celebrate traveling libraries and the dedicated people and organizations that deliver great books to people who can’t get to bookstores or libraries on their own.
Bookmobiles were the brain child of Mary Titcomb, a visionary Maryland librarian who devised a plan to reach readers who lived in rural areas so remote, they were unable to visit a library. In 1905 Mary loaded as many books as she could into a horse-drawn wagon, and set off to deliver books to isolated areas of the county.
Maryland librarian, Mary Titcomb.
Drawn by two horses, the first book wagon was designed by Mary herself. It had shelves on each side with doors that opened outward for easy browsing, while the interior was packed with additional cases of books to replenish the stock on long journeys.
At first she laid out 16 routes that covered 500 square miles of territory. Sometimes the wagon was out one day, more often two or three. To drive to the most distant outpost of the routes took four days round-trip.
A bookmobile at a rural Minnesota farm about 1920 (courtesy of Minnesota Digital Library)
Her program was an immediate success and its fame quickly grew. In 1912 Mary replaced the horse-drawn wagon with an automobile, which allowed her to not only complete the routes more quickly, but add additional routes as well. Soon she began setting up book “stations” in some areas, where residents could borrow books and return them after reading. Then, on a set schedule, a book wagon would deliver a fresh inventory books to replace those already read—a routine that was the precursor of our current system of library branches.
While on her routes Mary visited farms, remote cabins, and homes of invalids. In some cases, she found that only the children in a home knew how to read, so she helped families select books written at a level so the children could read to their parents. In other districts, men who knew how to read outnumbered the women and children. For these and each area she visited, she made notes and returned with books that suited the residents.
A bookmobile at a rural school in 1920.
In different newspaper accounts, Mary reported that the most requested books were practical and educational on topics like truck gardening, fruit raising, poultry culture, and domestic science.
Books on religion were also popular, “with a preference for those of a devotional nature.”
About 75 percent of fiction she delivered was juvenile, which she said meant “the books are read by both parents and children.” Susan Warner’s novel The Wide, Wide World was a favorite, as were other religious fiction titles. And since Isabella Alden’s novels were staples in public library systems across the country at that time, there’s a strong possibility the library outreach movement brought Isabella’s novels along on those bookmobile deliveries.
A bookmobile serving soldiers stationed in Kentucky, 1917.
It’s not hard to imagine that rural readers would have identified with the characters in Isabella’s books, like Esther in Ester Ried’s Namesake. Imagine being a young girl living on an isolated farm, opening a book to find Esther Ried Randall—a character whose life mirrored her own. Like the reader, Esther lived far from the bustle of the city, yet she harbored a dream of going off to college as an independent young woman. How much that book would have inspired that young girl to follow her educational and spiritual ambitions!
Or imagine a young boy with a penchant for getting into trouble and how much he would have identified with the main character in Isabella’s novel, Tony Keating’s Surprises.
In many ways, Isabella’s books (and others like them) were the only window some readers had on a larger world of instruction, culture, and good taste. Isabella’s skill for using stories to explain God’s love and plan for salvation ensured that traveling libraries delivered more than just entertainment—they delivered spiritual nourishment, as well.
A busy bookmobile in 1927.
Isabella’s books and Mary Titcomb’s outreach program were a perfect pairing. Both women were dedicated to making sure that God-given talents and wholesome reading were not restricted by geography or social standing.
For the girl dreaming of college or the boy seeking a better path, Mary Titcomb’s book wagon was more than just a vehicle; it was a lifeline that brought the world—and The Word—directly to their gate.
Isabella Alden was blessed with two striking talents: she was a gifted storyteller and a skillful teacher. She used those God-given talents to explain sometimes difficult Biblical truths in simple terms her readers could understand. In 1895 she wrote this short but effective letter to readers of The Pansy magazine about what it means to be intimate with Jesus:
DEAR YOUNG PEOPLE:
Why should we pray, do you think?
I have been looking in the Bible for a reason. I find a splendid one; it is because God hears, and helps. Look at the seventeenth verse of the thirty-fourth Psalm and see if it does not say so.
“The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.”
To be sure it begins, “The righteous cry,” but that means the people who try to do right. There isn’t much use in the prayers of other people; because, of course if we do not mean to try to do right, what use in asking God to help us? But now, what a wonderful thing it is that he is ready to hear us at any time and at all times! You know people, I presume, who are often too busy to hear what you have to say. Suppose God were so. Suppose he had to wait until he had answered twenty-five thousand other prayers before he could listen to yours!
When should we pray?
I know a girl who is troubled over the verse:
“I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth.”
“I can’t do that; “she said. “I have to think of lots of other things, and talk about them. How can anybody?”
It happens that this girl has a young friend about whom she talks a good deal.When she has any company her friend is sure to be one of them; if she has a gift she is sure to share it with her, if possible; and her brother said to her once, “You are always talking about Fannie Pierce.”
I reminded her of this, and of how much she made people realize that she loved Fannie, and said to her that I supposed the verse meant something like that. There were people who loved Jesus so much that they thought about him whenever any question came up as to where they should go, or what they should do, or be; wondering what would please him, and going to him about it, and thanking him for help. There is a sense in which they might be said to be “always thinking about him;” yet they think of many other things; only they are sure not to plan things which will not be pleasant to their friend.
I think she understood me, for she said, “Oh, I know how I feel about Fannie. Do you really think I could be as intimate with Jesus as that?”
What do you think? Doesn’t he call us to be very intimate with Him?
Isabella’s “Letter about Prayer” reminder us that the best lessons are often the simplest. Although it was written for children, Isabella used a very relatable example of a girl’s friendship with “Fannie Pierce” to explain a spiritual concept. For today’s readers, Isabella’s words still challenge us to consider if we are truly as “intimate with Jesus” as we are with those we love most on earth.
Do you think Isabella’s letter accomplished it’s purpose?
Isabella Alden’s novel Ester Ried, Asleep and Awake opens with a memorable scene: Ester Ried—barely eighteen years old—finds herself with much more responsibility than a girl of her age should have. With an ill mother, four younger siblings, and several boarders to care for and feed, she is often pressed for time, thin on patience, and struggling to keep up with a never-ending list of things to do.
Much of her time is spent in the kitchen cooking, washing dishes, and supervising laundry; and on scorching summer days, the heat from the wood stove makes the entire room even hotter, so her cheeks were always in a state of “glowing.”
Trade card for a traditional wood-burning kitchen stove, about 1890
When Ester Ried was published in 1870, kitchen stoves were large, cast-iron pieces of furniture; and while their primary function was for cooking, stoves also served as essential elements of a home’s heating system. In winter a wood-burning stove helped keep the house warm and cozy. In summer, the same stove could make a kitchen unbearably hot.
Isabella’s readers could identify with Ester Ried’s plight. Isabella, too, must have had more than her share of summer days spent “glowing” in an overheated kitchen while she cooked her family’s meals, heated water for bathing, and tended to a litany of household tasks.
An 1884 trade card from the Detroit Stove Works, manufacturer of wood-burning, oil, and gasoline stoves.
So in 1880, when a new type of cooking stove—the gasoline stove—appeared on the market, Isabella took notice.
Unlike traditional wood-burning stoves that required constant monitoring of logs, flues, and dampers to manage the temperature, gasoline stoves offered a revolutionary level of control. They worked much like a kerosene lamp: a cloth wick pulled the gasoline up to the burner where it turned into a gas, creating a steady, hot blue flame.
An 1890 ad for the Sun Dial gas stove.
By simply turning a knob to adjust the wick, a woman could make her cooking and baking incredibly precise. Best of all, because they didn’t radiate intense ambient heat like massive cast-iron wood stoves, they spared homemakers from suffering in a sweltering kitchen.
In 1880 Isabella wrote about a young wife and mother who learned about the advantages of a gasoline stove in a short story titled, “Faith and Gasoline.”
Summer heat and money troubles force Faith Vincent to face the heartbreaking prospect of being separated from her husband for the entire summer—until a neighbor’s wisdom, a clever “gasoline stove,” and a good amount of prayer help Faith secretly transform her despair into a promising future for herself and her family.
In an 1899 issue of The Pansy magazine, Isabella shared these wise words:
“A good conscience is more to be desired than all the riches of the East. How sweet are the slumbers of him who can lie down on his pillow and review the transactions of every day, without condemning himself! A good conscience is the finest opiate.”
You can find more of Isabella’s words of wisdom to read, print, and share. Just enter “quotables” in the search box to see more.
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Isabella Alden 