Honore Morrow

Born in 1880 Honoré Morrow was one of the most popular novelists of her day. Traveling to every state of the Union with her first husband, she used these experiences as background for her writing. Morrow is remembered for what became known as The Great Captain trilogy centered upon Abraham Lincoln: Forever Free (1927), With Malice Toward None (1928), and The Last Full Measure (1930). For five years, she served as the editor of The Delineator.

Among her other books, my personal favorites are Lydia of the Pines, Judith of the Godless Valley, Still Jim and The Heart of the Desert. Rather than discuss her biographical background, I thought it might make better sense to simply offer a poignant scene that takes place near the middle of Lydia of the Pines, where the bedraggled and poverty-stricken young protagonist has just entered high school.


The bell rang and she (Lydia) went to her recitation. It was in Civil Government. Lydia sat down dejectedly next to Charlie Jackson, the splendid, swarthy Indian boy of sixteen.

"Did you learn the preamble?" he whispered to Lydia.

She nodded.

"He didn't say we had to," Charlie went on, "but I like the sound of it, so I did."

The rest of the class filed in, thirty youngsters of fourteen or fifteen, the boys surreptitiously shoving and kicking each other, the girls giggling and rearranging their hair. Mr. James rapped on his desk, and called on young Hansen. "Can you give the preamble to the Constitution?" he asked, cheerfully.

The boy's jaw dropped. "You never told us to learn it," he said.

"No, I merely suggested that as Americans, you ought to learn it. I talked to you during most of yesterday's period about it. I wondered if you were old enough to take suggestions and not be driven through your books.”

“Miss Olson?"

Miss Olson, whose hair was done in the latest mode, tossed her head pertly. "I was too busy to learn anything extra."

Mr. James' eyebrows went up. "A dance last night, I suppose." He continued with his query half way round the class, then paused with a sigh. Has anyone in the class learned it?"

A muscular brown hand shot up, boldly. A thin white one timidly followed. "Ah!" Mr. James' face brightened. "Miss Dudley, try it."

Lydia clutched the back of the seat before her and began timidly. Then the dignity and somewhat of the significance of the words touched her and her voice became rich and full. "'We, the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.'"

"Good. Try it, Mr. Jackson."

The young Indian rose and began. "We, the people of the United States--" He too was letter perfect.

After he was seated, the teacher, a gray-haired, stern-faced man, looked at the two attentively. "Miss Dudley," he said finally, "does the preamble mean anything to you?"

Lydia's round childish eyes regarded him steadfastly. "Two of my ancestors were delegates to the first Convention," she said hesitatingly. "One of them lived in a log farmhouse with loopholes in it. They used to shoot Indians--" she paused and looked at Charlie Jackson, then went on. "I--I like the sound of the words."

The teacher nodded. "And you, Jackson?"

The boy scowled. "I know the words are lies as far as Indians are concerned. And I know they needn't have been if whites weren't natural hogs. Anyhow, I'm the only real American in the class."

Lydia looked up at the brown face eagerly, questioningly.

Mr. James nodded. "Quite right, Jackson."

Young Hansen spoke up. "We're all Americans. What's he giving us?"

"Has your father been naturalized, Hansen?" asked the teacher.

The Norwegian boy shook his head, shamefacedly.

"And were you born in this country?"

"I was a baby when they came over."

"Well then, are you an American, or aren't you? You don't really know, do you? And you haven't enough interest in the country you've lived in fourteen years to find out--or to know what was the impulse that gave birth to our laws, the thing that makes an American different from a Norwegian, for instance. The two people in the class who needed the preamble least are the ones that have learned it. I'm disappointed. We'll go on to the lesson. Reisenweber, what is a demesne?"

Lydia sat looking from the teacher's face to Charlie Jackson, and from Charlie to the blond faces of the other pupils. Vague wonderments were stirring in her mind; the beginnings of thoughts she never had had before. Tramping home that night through the snowy road she had a new set of thoughts. What had made her stiffen and at the same time feel sorry and ashamed when Charlie Jackson had said the Preamble was a lie for Indians! And could she, could she possibly in the two weeks before Miss Towne's reception make herself a dress that would be presentable?



The prescient irony of this passage written well over a hundred years ago taken together with its originality - I can’t imagine many modern-day authors conjuring up such an ingenious bit of descriptive prose - is quite striking. And this scene represents just one of many similar examples of superior craftsmanship and ironic subtlety. Honoré Morrow, a feminist at heart, coveted a heartfelt conviction in the efficacy of God, tradition, community (i.e. community in the sense of people acting with generosity and common decency toward their neighbors) and basic family values.

If anyone wants to read Honore Morrow's books, which reside in the public domain, they are readily available at no cost and can be downloaded through the Gutenberg Press.