Poetry, Tea, and Felicity

I have a set of my great-grandmother's china. Most of the pieces stay packed away for special occasions, but I keep two sets of teacups and saucers in the kitchen, along with a teapot I bought a few years ago.

After listening to the historical fiction audiobooks about Felicity, the American Girl, my own Felicity decided she wanted to have tea, too. She informed me that, in the books, the girls learn how to behave properly at tea time, and she seemed determined that we should do the same.

Tea time also happens to fit beautifully with our homeschool. In many Charlotte Mason circles, "poetry tea time" is a beloved tradition. We brew a pot of tea, gather cookies, and read a few poems together. Somehow poetry becomes much more enjoyable when there's a teacup in your hand. Many families make it a weekly ritual, and I'm beginning to understand why.

My younger son insists on joining his sister's tea time—not because he's particularly interested in tea, but because he knows tea comes with cookies and a sugar cube. Truthfully, neither of my children actually likes tea very much. They often make dramatic faces as they swallow sips.

I'm determined to keep introducing different varieties, though. Perhaps one day we'll discover a favorite. Or maybe they'll simply acquire a taste for it over time.

One of my favorite parts of the whole tradition is watching my independent little girl take ownership of it. After observing me enough times, she now prepares almost everything herself. She carefully sets out the cups and saucers, places the spoons just so, pours the milk into the little cream pitcher, and then proudly calls us to the table.

When it's time to pour the tea, she won't let anyone serve themselves. She insists on doing the honors herself, making sure everyone's cup is filled. I'm guessing that's one of the lessons she picked up from her book.

Today's selection came from a Mother Goose collection. One poem made me laugh because it seemed to describe my daughter perfectly:

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

I later discovered that, although my book simply lists it as a nursery rhyme, the poem was actually written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1850 for his young daughter. Over time it escaped its original context and became so well known that it found its way into children's poetry collections, where most of us now assume it's simply part of traditional folklore.

As for my own little girl... I'm happy to report that as she gets older she spends more time being "very good indeed" than she does being horrid. But every now and then, Longfellow's poem feels remarkably accurate.