Types of Children's Literature A Collection of the World's Best Literature for Children, For Use in Colleges, Normal Schools and Library Schools — Context and Discussion

A Taxonomy of Juvenile Genres

Barnes’s organizing principle is taxonomic. He groups selections under headings such as “Fables,” “Fairy Tales,” “Myths,” “Poetry,” “Historical Stories,” and “Nature Study.” Each section opens with a brief editorial note that defines the type and often cites authorities like Thomas Bulfinch or Andrew Lang. For example, the fable section explains the form’s moral structure before offering Aesop; the fairy-tale section distinguishes between “household tales” and “literary fairy tales.” This framework treats literature as a subject for dissection, not immersion. The headnotes rarely comment on a story’s charm or emotional effect; instead they note its origin, variant, or place in a developmental sequence. A student reading “Aladdin” here encounters it not as a standalone wonder but as an instance of the “Oriental tale” subtype, complete with a note on its source in The Arabian Nights.

The Editor’s Voice in the Headnotes

Barnes’s own prose is brisk and declarative. In the preface he writes that the collection “has evolved itself naturally and, as it were, inevitably out of the editor’s experience.” The passive construction and hedging (“as it were”) suggest a man wary of seeming presumptuous, yet the headnotes are anything but tentative. He tells readers that a given poem “illustrates the ballad spirit” or that a story “shows the transition from myth to fairy tale.” These judgments are offered without citation or argument; the editor’s authority is assumed. The tone is that of a lecturer who expects his classifications to be accepted. When he introduces a selection from The Pilgrim’s Progress, he notes its “allegorical method” without explaining why that method matters for children. The headnotes thus function as a teacher’s script, not a critical dialogue.

The Aladdin Excerpt: Manipulation and Disguise

The excerpt from “Aladdin” included in the anthology is striking for its focus on strategic deception. Aladdin instructs the princess to “dissemble a little” and “do violence to your inclinations” in order to poison the magician. The passage is almost entirely dialogue and plan-making: Aladdin changes clothes with a peasant, buys a powder from a suspicious druggist, and rehearses the poisoning ritual step by step. The princess’s reluctance is noted but quickly overridden. Barnes’s headnote for this section (not shown in the excerpt) likely classifies it as a “fairy tale” or “Oriental tale,” but the selection itself emphasizes cunning over magic. The lamp, the genie, and the palace are absent; what remains is a lesson in tactical dissemblance. This choice may reflect Barnes’s interest in tales that model problem-solving behavior, a theme he elsewhere calls “the practical wisdom of the folk.”

Omissions and the Anthologist’s Hand

Because Barnes’s excerpts are often short—sometimes only a few pages—the reader sees only fragments of longer works. The “Aladdin” passage, for instance, begins in the middle of the story and ends before the magician’s death. No context is given for the characters’ relationships or the stakes of the poisoning. This is typical of the anthology: Barnes treats each selection as a specimen, not a narrative. He assumes the instructor will supply background. The effect is that the book feels like a syllabus in bound form—a collection of starting points rather than complete experiences. For a modern reader, the gaps can be frustrating, but they also reveal the editor’s pedagogical assumptions: that the type matters more than the tale, and that analysis should precede enjoyment.

Barnes’s anthology is best read as a historical document of early twentieth-century literary education. Its value lies not in the selections themselves—most are available elsewhere—but in the editorial framework that organizes them. The headnotes, the taxonomic structure, and the emphasis on “types” rather than stories all reflect a moment when children’s literature was being professionalized as a field of study. Readers interested in the history of education or canon formation will find this volume revealing; those seeking a storybook for children should look elsewhere.

Barnes’s anthology made me think of the old grammar book that once sat on my grandmother’s shelf, heavy with rules and examples. Both treat their subjects as tidy cabinets, each drawer labeled for a purpose. Flipping through his headnotes, I remembered that quiet, dusty certainty of English Grammar and Composition for Public Schools — Context and Discussion, and how home felt, somehow, like classification.