So the (1992) little golden book version of the Cornish folk tale, Jack and the Beanstalk, is rife with what I would consider inaccuracies. The giant doesn’t say his normal rhyme and doesn’t even include anything about making bread from bones. That’s the rhyme that everyone knows from that story. Fee, Fi, Fo Fum I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he live or be he dead I’ll grind your bones to make my bread. Who wants to read the story with this dumbed down giant. Also the moral ambiguity is ripped out of the story on the last page when it turns out that the giant had originally stolen the harp and the goose from Jack’s father.
Yet Little Golden Books used to be far more interesting before they tried to protect children from fears of giants in the clouds baking bone bread. If you ever see The Taxi That Hurried be sure to read it. The taxi driver smokes, honks his horn, and acts generally abrasive to the world around him yet he is hailed as a hero for getting the mother and son in his taxi to the train on time. Because nicotine enhanced road rage gets the job done.
Anyway, Jack and the Beanstalk in its original form teaches children important lessons about the risks involved while meddling with magic, giants, and beans. Dumbing it down hurts all of us.
In case you didn’t notice the difference in delivery, this post has been guest written by a certain young man that recently returned to our town, and has been reading books to small children.
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