blog description

Old women talk about old things: history, myth, magic and their
checkered pasts, about what changes and what does not.

Sunday, July 3, 2022

 Addiction blog

Wednesday, June 29, 2022

Addiction Epidemic--Just a Symptom?

Everyone knows we are in the midst of an opioid epidemic. Recent figures (necessarily an estimate) show 16 million people are addicted to opiates world-wide; 3 million of those are here in the U.S. 500,000 in the U.S are addicted to heroin.

"Opioids are prescribed to treat pain. With prolonged use, pain-relieving effects may lessen and pain can become worse. In addition, the body can develop dependence. Opioid dependence causes withdrawal symptoms, which makes it difficult to stop taking them. Addiction occurs when dependence interferes with daily life. Taking more than the prescribed amount of licit drugs or using illegal opioids like heroin may result in death." 

"Symptoms of addiction include uncontrollable cravings and inability to control opioid use even though it's having negative effects on personal relationships or finances..."

You may also become addicted to pharmaceuticals which are commonly used to treat mood disorders, such as anxiety. Valium and Xanax are two treatments doctors have become ever more wary of over-prescribing. These drugs can interfere with the workings of the autonomic system of the abuser to the point of the stopping the heart.

In western cultures, alcohol is the traditional mood-altering substance, but this, too, when abused, can have deadly consequences for users as well as for anyone who gets in the way of, say, a drunk driver, or someone's alcohol-fueled rage.

"Excessive alcohol use was responsible for more than 140,000 deaths in the United States each year during 2015–2019, or more than 380 deaths per day."  

Medical experts, however, now realize that substance addictions are not the only shape the  dysfunction takes. Addictions to cell phones, to video games or to social media are a few of the categories that are currently recognized. All of these behaviors are on display inside any shopping mall or grocery store--or inside your own home.

Increasingly, too, it appears that societies  too can suffer from addictions, and that these "macro-addictions" are might be the gravest of all. Exactly as in substance abuse, these societal addictions can cause many members of those societies  to suffer great emotional and physical damage. 

There is also another addiction, one to control, which appears to be an integral part of western civilization. Control, in and of itself, is not necessarily a bad thing in a world of 8 billion people (now straining our planet's resources to the breaking point), but that too is another subject too large for this small blog. 

 "Those who do not understand their past are doomed to repeat it" An apocryphal quote by now, but having a lifelong fascination with history/society, I have spent much of my life studying it . Although raised with a Euro-centric view, I have remained to open to changing my mind, to learning and expanding my understanding.

 When European colonists came to America, they met people who lived in completely unfamiliar social systems. Certainly, in the context of history, there was no way for Europeans to see those new people other than as "savages."  They did not share our traditions or our religious beliefs. Arriving on these shores having been born and raised within rigidly hierarchical systems of class--with Kings whose powers were still assumed to be God-given--and still carrying on brutal, atrocity filled wars of religion among Christian groups, Europeans could not see Indigenous people any other way. 

Fly Away Snow Goose, set among nomadic hunter-gatherers, was my attempt--alongside my co-author, John Wisdomkeeper--to address this brutal cultural collision between colonizers and colonized. The various religious groups who arrived in The Northeast Territory- what was then one of the last frontiers in North America--may have believed that they were bringing "the blessings of civilization" to their small pupils in those reservation schools, but that is not the story we hear from ever so many of those who were removed from their families and marooned in places with inadequate food and none of the familial warmth and affection into which they had been born. Siblings were separated, and the children all kept away from their famiy's home for most of the year, further disrupting family bonds and separating them from their culture.

If they were taught anything beyond religious formula, it was to perform tasks such as scrubbing, ironing, sewing, manual labor. They were taught that only European ways,--and people-- had value, that they belonged to a "lesser race" doomed to be always inferior, no matter what they learned or achieved. Their stories, myths, and especially their languages, were forbidden. The cold strange religion (with rites conducted in a foreign language) they were forced to accept offered little  solace. Unsurprising that in a few generations their heritage, their language and their stories vanished, leaving only broken souls behind. Alcoholism, domestic abuse, and violence plague today's reservations, and these are all symptoms of a vast cultural trauma and individual pain. 

And this pain seems to have become endemic in our modern world, and, as we know, this pain doesn't spare rich countries. We have more material comforts than we ever had, but we appear to be ever-more dissatisfied and greedy. 

Consider the words of the Wendat Philosopher and Statesman Kandiaronk, as related to future historians by an impoverished French aristocrat named Louis-Armand de Lom d'Arce, known to posterity as Lahontan who published several popular accounts of his many years in New France. Lahontan, who had become fluent in Algonkian, Wendat and other tribes 1703 book,titled:  Curious Dialogues with a Savage of Good Sense Who has Traveled) would become foundational to the later works of Rosseau and other Enlightenment and revolutinary thinkers. 

In the late 17th Century, Kandiaronk was a famous negotiator among the tribes--Mik'maq, Haudesaunee, Algonkian, and others, as well as with the French. He was frequently at the Governor of New France--the Comte de Frontenac-- table and attempted through reasonable discourse, oratory, and persistent negotiation to save his people and their way of life from the ever-encroaching, insatiable Europeans. His thoughts provoked revolutions and inspired political philosophers for the next 200 years. 

"For my part, I find it hard to imagine how you could be much more miserable than you already are....

I have spent six years reflecting on the state of European society and I still can't think of a single way they act that's not inhuman, and I genuinely think this can only be the case, as long as you stick to your distinction of "mine and thine"...

I affirm that what you call money is the devil of devils; the tyrant of the French, the source of all evils....

Can you seriously imagine that I would be happy to live like one of the inhabitants of Paris, to take two hours to put on my shirt and make-up, to bow and scrape before every obnoxious fool I meet on the streets who just happened to born with an inheiritance? Do you really imagine I could carry a purse full of coins and not immediately hand them over to people who are hungry; that I would carry a sword but not immediately draw it on the first band of thugs I see rounding up the destitute to press them into naval service?"

~~Juliet Waldron

I am indebted to David Graeber & David Wengrow's new book: The Dawn of Everything, for this introduction to the words of Kandiaronk, Wendat Chief, Warrior and Diplomat, and a truly

Monday, September 21, 2020

Hail the Traveler

(Uncertain from where this comes, but it's beautiful and I wanted to share after the death of our great heroine, RBG.)


Hail the Traveler

Commit you back from where you came

to the arms of your ancestors.

May there be peace where there was anger.

May there be healing where there was hurt.

Go quickly to the place that your old ones called Home.

For those who grieve your passing, 

let there be healing.

For those who grieve for what you could have been, 

let there be healing.

Hail The Traveler!

We celebrate your journey.

Thursday, February 13, 2020

IMBOLC, (Candlemass)

This festival is a power point on the wheel of the year. To our ancestors, one happening (one that only a few of us are today even know about) marked this date with great importance:

"Lambs are born; there is milk now."

 The winter (or at least that's what this season used to be) was in those Little Ice Age Days winding down. There was higher sun. Bare turf patches appeared in the pastures that lay upon south-facing hills. 

Perhaps, down in your valley, the sun sets today in the center of the notch upon that looming crag.

Or, maybe, over there in the next valley, the sun sets at a particular spot, right there in the circle of stone built by wise ancestors.

The sun stays above the horizon for longer every day—and with that and some regular rain and no plague among people or livestock—there will be enough to eat again. If we are lucky, there will be plenty over to get us through the next winter, and enough to leave seed to plant in the year after that. 

Besides the agricultural, there were contracts between men and families which must be made, oaths given, hand clasping hand, in a community where a man's word was his bond. 

I think it's a good thing to remember such times, though long ago.

Our world is different, but aren't our basic tasks similar? Shouldn't we support one another in community? Shouldn't we celebrate the simple miracle of the lambs? Shouldn't we speak truth to one another? 

So, let's suck up our courage and go forth to continue the work which will reshape our society for the good of all of us. Let's give up our fears and rally to put a brake upon those privileged few who sit like dragons atop the spoil of an entire planet's resources. Remember, even here in the 21st Century, "sunlight is the best disinfectant."


Tuesday, January 14, 2020

She Is

There is a real world; 
there is a magical world, too. 
Sometimes we forget the magical one, 
struggling too hard 
in the painful, dirty, bloody real one.  
But the magic is here, and 
She is here, too, 
Our Nightmare Mistress, Life in Death.

Sometimes she reaches down and touches,
Be still and sense 
just the slightest grace.  
The gold of autumn against blue sky, 
spring green -- poignant, aching. 
                           Heavy languid summer,                          
leaves, bliss in whisper of air.
White frozen lake of winter, 
crystal glitter bubbles riming the edge
so the fallen fool can contemplate 
the looking glass, gazing into glacier.

In each season 
She whispers a syllable in the ear, 
sprouts a mushroom, 
sings a bird ,
offers a single, starburst wildflower, 
tosses a stone from nowhere 
to ripple the pond.  
That's a
life worth living.  

The ghosts I've seen 
near bodies dancing,
 heart's pumping blood spilled
on sandy shores.

I've blessed you, chorusing cicada, 
geese exulting through a torn sky.
Moonlight, starlight, 
wind and rain and stinging snow. 
I've seen the Aten,
 clamoring hands reaching 
from below the horizon,
my eyes 
swimming in seawater,
heard souls at the gate 
of that incandescent chantry...

Juliet Waldron

See all my historical novels @

Tuesday, October 8, 2019

Life ~ Death

This is a story-poem by Jen Marsh, who has been primary caregiver for the last five years to her mother, now sliding ever deeper into dementia. 

Jen's powerful meditation is perfect for the original intent of the founding mothers of Cronehenge, who now find themselves looking back as much as looking forward. Several of us have already taken this challenging mother-daughter journey. 

We have already attended upon the first two Fates, Urd and Verdandi. Now, we who are Crones move into the presence of Skuld, where begins our final unwinding.

Are life and death the same?
Is one more precious than the other?
My mom has dementia.
I have been supporting her care on a daily basis
For over 5 years.
Witnessing her reversal.
I cannot use the word death here
Because what I have been taught about death
Just doesn't seem to fit.

One of my greatest pains in life
Has been my inability to conceive a child,
My inability to create and bring forth another life.
My life seems to have been focused 
More on what most would consider
The opposite of birth or life.
With so many of my animal friends
I have been the main one supporting
Their end of life needs.
To truly be there
Connected and engaged
All the way to the point of death,
I cannot describe it as anything but
The most beautiful
And the most painful
Experience in my life thus far.
In that moment of letting go
Death became a birth.

As I scroll through my Facebook feed
I am aware of a change in my habits.
I used to skip all of the posts
About mothers sharing their experiences.
Honestly it was too painful
To read about motherhood,
Something I will never experience.
Now I am drawn to these posts.
As my mother is reverse learning
Many of these "motherhood" experiences
That I am reading about,
I am experiencing with my mother.
Battles with not wanting to bathe or shower.
The slow process of not using a fork.
Worrying about what can be swallowed safely.
The reverse potty training.
So much of what these mothers are talking about
Are things I am experiencing in reverse.

When my dear canine friend Zaboo died,
The last moments felt like a birth
Into something unknown.
A letting go.
A moving on.
And I was the midwife
Encouraging the process.

I am approaching this moment
With my mom
The slow reversal of learning
The slow process of forgetting
All life supporting processes.
And, there are no set guidelines
For the unlearning,
For the forgetting.
By age 9?
She should forget how to walk.
By age 9?  
She should forget how to use the toilet.
By age 9?
She should forget how to swallow.

Experiencing this reversal
Has encouraged me to look at death
With new eyes, from a new perspective,
One very different from what I was taught.
The difference between life and death
Is becoming very unclear to me.
Am I witnessing
An approach to an end
Or an approach to a beginning?

~~Jen Marsh

Wednesday, August 7, 2019

Urgent Message from Mother

Poem by ~~

Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D.  
quoted from Urgent Message from Mother
Gather the Women, Save the World

Circle up, sisters! 
The time to save our world -- for our grandchildren, for our fellow species--is NOW.

Untapped source of peace,
The only real hope
Is to draw upon the collective wisdom of women.
Those with direct experience of the cost of war:
The life of child, grandchild, sibling, spouse,
The loss of limb or mind of someone near and dear,
The loss of laughter, the pervasiveness of fear,
The loss of hope for the future.

Untapped source of peace,
Those who have known domestic violence:
Seen the effect of bullying on sons,
Seen daughters become silent,
Seen light go out in their eyes.
Those who know
That when every child matters,
When none are hungry, abused, or discounted,
The world will become a kinder place
For us all.

Untapped source of peace,
Women with empathy
Who live in a world apart,
Are safe, loved, and fortunate,
Yet can imagine
Being helpless, beaten, and raped,
Then forced to bear a child
Conceived in violence.
Women who know in their hearts
That what happens to any woman
Could happen to them.

Untapped source of peace,
Women who see loved ones filled with vengeance and hate,
Hypervigilant, fear-ridden, or afraid to sleep
Because of the nightmares.
Husbands, brothers, sons and now daughters
Home from wars,
Bearing little resemblance to who they could have been
In a peaceful world.

Untapped source of peace,
Women in circles,
Women connecting,
Women together
Bringing the sacred feminine,
Maternal instinct, sister archetype,
Mother power
Into the world.

Poem by ~~
Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D.  
quoted from Urgent Message from Mother
Gather the Women, Save the World

Tuesday, November 28, 2017


I cannot believe that this vandalism of an actual treasure -- drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge -- is even being contemplated. It's time to ask where the souls of the people now proposing this atrocity are, and in what black hole of greed they dwell. 

This is the only planet we have, and so much of what our grandkids' future will look like depends upon our generation's changing our attitude toward Mother Earth. She's not Ours. We're Hers. We're part of a system, a part that's taken to acting like a virus. here, at the bottom of the sky, we are goldfish in a small bowl, where no one's going to come and change the water.  The way we're being taken by our corporate leaders can only end with the human race dying in it's own excrement. 

There has to be a major mental shift inside the heads of a lot of people if we are to protect such places from the "take paradise and put in...." an oil rig tendency of the guys who have made themselves our masters. 

The sad facts are that's it's just another shell game. The money from drilling is pie in the sky. Someone among our complicit legislator needs to feel the stirring of conscience and put unbiased eyes on the numbers. These show that drilling in the Refuge is the usual corporate scam, which ends with one rich guy (Think The Baron Harkonnen,) a lot of busted folks--and with the bill for the clean-up for the toxic ruin left behind-- as well as for the many "subsidies" the industry will require--all the responsibility of the taxpayer. 

If the peasants stopped staring into the daily electronic Circus Maximus and looked around them, they'd see the shackles being locked onto to their ankles--once again--by the thugs who seem to always-- in this and every other human civilization to date -- eventually rig/bully/steal/murder their way to the top. 

From The Audubon Society:
"The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge supports millions of birds that migrate through our state and all 50 states to raise their chicks in its pristine habitat. Birds like the Tundra Swan and Northern Pintail return year after year to nest on its coastal plain, while caribou undertake one the world's longest land migrations to reach the coastal plain and give birth to their young.

The Arctic Refuge does not belong in a tax bill. Yet the Senate tax bill, which could soon receive a vote in the House, opens the Refuge to drilling while avoiding regular order and real debate. The numbers don't add up. Leasing is unlikely to meet the $1 billion instructions--more realistic estimates suggest it would only raise $37.5M.  U.S. oil production and exports are at record levels while oil prices are near record lows. Further, the bill makes oil drilling the primary purpose for the Refuge's coastal plain, limiting environmental review in a precedent that puts all of our federally protected lands at risk. The Arctic Refuge is one of our last truly wild places and an iconic American landscape." 

The Arctic Refuge is even more--it's a living, breathing World Heritage site, a vital part of the heart-beat of our planet. 

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Judy Chicago's DINNER PARTY

During 1974-79, Judy Chicago, along with collaborators both male and female in what are patronizingly called “decorative arts,” (embroidery, weaving, painting on ceramic) created a work called The Dinner Party. This was a triangular table with an exquisitely embroidered runner and 39 hand-painted and decorated ceramic plates. Each was made in the shape of a vulva, and decorated in a way which was meant to express the spiritual, artistic and esthetic contribution to society made by a famous woman. 

The Dinner Party Wolstonecraft Plate may be seen, along with the rest, 
at the Brooklyn Museum: 

The work has plenty of critics, some, the usual suspects, powerful old men in high places who loudly declared that it was “pornographic,” but also quite a few feminists. Some criticism has to do with the way certain famous women are represented—for instance, frilly 50's petticoat frills might not have been the best choice for the solitary lady in white Emily Dickinson. Perhaps the inclusion of Georgia O’Keeffe, who declared that her flower paintings had nothing to do with the vaginal, showed a disregard for her often stated opinion. Perhaps Virginia Woolf, a writer who despised the public’s obsession with the gender of authors, is another who should not have been included.  Other female critics have said that The Dinner Party is not only vulgar, a tune with one note, but demeaning to women, reducing these brave and brilliant fore-mothers to a bad-joke common denominator.

I’m not a visual artist, but it seems to me that while you might find fault with a part of the whole, The Dinner Party accomplishes its purpose, both as a work of art and as a powerful, provocative feminist statement.  It is estimated that 15 million people on three continents have seen it, pondered it, and argued about it.

The installation has been a taking off place for women to think about their obscured history and about their accomplishments, about their historical and mythical power, their works of art and their creativity.  It's a shout-out for the central fact of the feminine. 

Hindu Temple, Goddess gives birth

If the penis has been celebrated as the ejaculator of ideas, why can’t the vulva, too, be celebrated and honored as it once was in pagan times? Let's reclaim that old time pride in our bodies and what they can do. Woman is the portal through which all creation emerges.

Judy Chicago's artwork is ongoing:

Birth Tear, from the Birth Project, by Judy Chicago

Senior curator David Revere McFadden wrote about The Creation tapestry:
“...Casting this archetypal story as that of female fecundity flies in the face of visual, cultural, and religious history. It becomes a metanarrative by implication, reflecting Chicago’s determination to challenge the status quo and to question received knowledge”.

~~~Juliet Waldron

See all my historical novels and many bookstores where these are available @

Sunday, July 23, 2017

A Visit to the Fey

I was recently privileged to join in a procession of the Fey--behind no less a personage than the Queen of Fairies, as a part of her entourage. This doesn't happen to a human very often, and certainly not often to elder humans. 

Old people remind the Queen of decay and death, things she does not allow within her realm, her realm which is eternal--ever-green--as they say. She and her subjects do not age; they are forever young and fair. Therefore, to sing to her and walk beside her people was a great honor for this old woman, definitely a bucket list item.

(Not to say I've never danced with the Fey. I, in the days of my youth--back in the now legendary and generally misunderstood sixties, back when I was young and fair, I participated in her rites--rites which raise energy, and all that naturally follows after, those encounters in the dark scented forest, where all celebrants channeled Venus and Mars. Never mind, it's all back of me now.)

Bay Laurel

The Fairy Queen is a lover of high fashion, of flashing sequined quirks, tinkling bells, supple bare flesh, bejeweled dresses woven with spider's web. She even loves kinky boots, so her devotees wore them too.

Her entourage was more than ready to indulge her every whim, and upon this high magical occasion, they certainly pulled it off. I wore the best dress I had, long sleeves, flowing in mauve, in blue and green. A generous member of Her court gilded my cheek with a star. I braided my long white hair and carried a wand taken from the Holy Laurel. At first I held an inspirational leaf between my lips, like the Delphic Priestess.

  The Queen of Elphame, by Fuseli

Oh, how these fairies shone as they walked, fairy lights and fairy dust around them, making music with their sweet voices, a procession through twilight, following the glorious Queen and her tasty Year King! Beguiled, I followed after. When they began to sing, I took the laurel leaf from between my lips, lifted my laurel wand and had the pleasure of joining my still true voice with theirs.

And what did we sing in our ecstasy--again and again in an endless spiral--but one of the songs which captivate mortals and carry them into a realm that is fickle, cruel, and totally enthralling, a song which the fairies will sing even as the silver flash of a sacrificial knife pierces their own cool fairy hearts:

We shall be free
We shall be free
To sing 
And dance 
And make love--
Won't you come with me?

~~ Walker

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Packaging Problems :( By J. Olmstead

Ok !  Hey this is great.. Saves on finding a container to store your unused portions away until your stomach demands a bit of ham.. Or frozen meatballs...
I seemed to have uncovered a small problem with this wonder technology .
And that to get them unsealed to start with.
Dispite little arrows, dotted lines , clearly visible zippers ,  little  printed tiny fingers pointing  to how to get the package opened.  I seem to fail miserably on achieving a clean open.
My packages often end up stabbed, scissored , shredded . Cursed at.. And occasionally thrown hard on the counter with.. I didn't want to eat you anyways...
 Others are left with Ragged plastic edges that defy any form of closing at all.
So, into another container to store... This one with easy snap on lids..another brilliant invention .

If, one can find the right one in a drawer stuffed with containers...and lids...
All seemingly divorced. Or at least.. In a heavy argument.
There are a few places in the mexican market where I shop.. Mainly on the street.. Where life is very simple.
A round of homemade cheese is wrapped in plastic.. No seals.. And placed in a small clear plastic bag. Freshly made this morning .
Fruits and vegetables.. Fresh fish filleted before your eyes. Shrimp.. Similar .
Eggs.. Fresh baked rolls..  All slipped into an open ended plastic bag. Also  Drinks served in a bag with a straw poking out.
I am more and more enjoying that loose, no nonsense way of bringing things home.
While I may on occasion break an egg.. Or want to put my drink down for a moment...
I am not reduced to a blithering idiot trying to get at the product. Stabbing. Cursing frustrated.
Ok, thank you for reading my lament...
On purpose, I did not put it in a sealed bag for you!

~~ Joy Olmstead

Friday, November 11, 2016

An Ancient Fable

Now, dear readers, after the events of the last week, it is time for a retelling of a very old story, first written down in Aesop's Fables. This, I fear, is a prophecy.

Once upon a time there was a lovely pond full of frogs, all happy and fat and singing. Things were  largely good. The pond always stayed full; it didn't dry up like other ponds and leave them stranded in mud. There were lots of bugs and many large green lily pads to sit upon. Still, the frogs were not happy because they were bored. Things were dull here, always the same. They thought they might like to have a king so that he could devise things for them to do. Kings, they knew, paraded about in pomp and splendor, which would be entertaining. So they petitioned Jupiter, Father of Gods and Men, to send them a king.

Jupiter, understanding the true nature of kings, thought the little frogs were foolish, but decided that, as they weren't very bright either, he'd send them a king who would neither hurt them nor take advantage. He dropped a huge log into the pool. This fell with a tremendous splash, and the frogs, naturally, were terrified. They all hid, some down deep in the water, others under the lily pads and behind rocks. Trembling, they waited to see what this new king would do. Of course, the log did nothing.

After a while, the frogs recovered from their initial fright. They approached the log and swam around it. Nothing happened. After a little while, the young frogs jumped up on the log and took turns diving into the pond. Growing braver, they began to sit on the log and take in the sun and hunt for flies. The log was excellent for these purposes.

This was entertaining for a time, but pretty soon the frogs were again sitting around complaining about how boring things were in their lovely green pond. This king that Jupiter had sent, they said, was "a milk and water king," nothing to be afraid of. This king made no great displays of his power or courage; he didn't go to war. This king held no ceremonies filled where they all had to bow and salute. Eventually, the elder frogs made the log their meet-up place and here they sat around for hours upon hours, complaining endlessly about the state of the government. Near the end of summer, the log grew sodden and sank.

Once again the frogs petitioned Jupiter, Father of Gods and Men, saying that this king he'd sent hadn't added up to much. In fact, he hadn't been a king at all, hadn't done a single kingly thing during his rule. Now, he'd sunk, leaving them in the same state as before,
without a king.  "This time," they said, "Oh great God, send us a REAL KING."

Jupiter had pretty much had it by now. After all, he'd been listening to them gripe all summer, so, this time he sent a large crane to be king over frog land. The crane was different right from the start. As soon as he landed, big feet entering the shallow water with a splosh, he began to gobble up frogs as fast as he could choke them down his long skinny neck. He ate and ate and ate while the frogs scattered, hopping and swimming in utter terror. The crane used his long bill to probe the mud where they tried to hide; he turned over rocks. When he found them, he skewered them like shish-kabobs.

The frogs who survived the first onslaught
cried out pitifully, once again calling upon Jupiter, Father of Gods and Men. "Oh, please, no! This is not the king we wanted! Save us! Take the crane away! He's cruel; he's a tyrant! His belly is a bottomless pit! His appetite is insatiable! If this continues, he will soon devour every single one of us!" 

"How now!" Jupiter said. "Are you not yet content? You have what you asked for and so you have only yourselves to blame for your misfortunes."

Aesop for Children (translator not identified), 1919. Illustrations by Milo Winter (1886-1956). Available online at Project Gutenberg