Little Orphant Annie
In the 1880s, a girl growing up
in rural Iowa learns about magic
folk from a remarkable elf-like
kitchen girl.
Original story material is the property of the fanfic author; other material of Rowling et al. falls under the usual disclaimer. The poem, written by James Whitcomb Riley in 1885, is popularly known as Little Orphant Annie -- but its original name, The Elf-Child, suggested this story.
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun,
A-listenin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
We so loved growing up with Annie in the house. A short thing, she was, not much bigger than little Bridget at the time. Yet she said she was older than our cousin Jack, which would make her fourteen at least.
Mother always thought she might have escaped from a circus, and Annie never argued it with her, only saying she was an orphan. But that's not exactly what she told us little girls when adults were out of earshot.
In the old country, she said, her father was a goblin and her mother was an elf.
Annie needed a stool to do a lot of things in the kitchen, and we never could see how she moved big heavy pots, or reached the topmost shelves in the larder. Once, I thought she might have one of those fancy poles like Mr. Cushman has at his store in Harlan; he can grab a box off the top shelf just so easily! But, I never saw her use a pole. All we knew was, if we left the room, somehow she got it done.
If a storm came out of the prairie and it got real dark inside, she'd quickly light candles for us. I know she didn't take them to the fireplace to light them, or carry matches or a taper around the house, but somehow she did it, right away.
I asked her once, when we were alone, and Annie whispered she used elfin magic -- but swore me to be quiet about it.
She knew how to cook everything. Used to cook at a school for witches and wizards, she said!
Mother made us baby candles, little things about two inches high. That was because we always wanted to sit up with Annie by the fireplace in the summer kitchen, and listen to her stories and sing little songs. We loved those evening hours, after Mother and Father had gone to bed, and we were allowed to stay up until the baby candle had melted down and gone out.
Annie would give us a sip of cider from a brown jug, which she said was witch's sleeping potion. She'd herd us children to our beds, then, tuck us in, kiss us g'night. She'd go back to the kitchen to put a backlog on the fire to last until morning. Some nights, we'd hear her talking to someone, but we always fell asleep, no matter how hard we tried to stay awake and listen.
She told us such wonderful stories. Annie said her mother cooked at the school, too; you could tell she missed her mother very much. They made over 400 meals, three times a day, she said, and not little meals either, but big banquets like they have at the hotels in Chicago. With magic, it was so much easier, and nothing ever burned. They didn't have to pluck chickens, like we do, but just do a charm, and they didn't have to fetch wood for the fireplace, because the fire was always burning somehow. Nothing went cold while they made all those meals and laid them out on huge serving platters; then the head wizard would wave his hand up in the dining hall, and without so much as a by-your-leave, all the platters went upstairs by magic!
So, if it was such a wonderful place, we asked, how come she was in Iowa now?
Annie didn't want to talk about it, really; she'd rather talk happy things, or tell stories. She did say her father, the goblin, ordered her to come to his house and be the cook. Her mother didn't want her to go, saying goblins were mean to their house elves. When it looked like her father would win, Annie was told it was best if she went somewhere else -- where goblins didn't rule, and she could be herself. As it was, she looked like humans, so she could live with humans and they'd never guess she was a magical person. So Annie set out with all the other emigrants, and boarded a ship unseen, and came to Philadelphia, then rode the trains to Des Moines. And here she was.
She made it sound so real. I wasn't so sure, because I didn't think there would be 400 children in a witch school in Scotland. There were only 6 regular schools in the township, and maybe 10 students in each, if that.
It was the August when I was 8 that I thought I'd play a trick on Annie. I wanted to hear what she was saying after we went to bed, and who she was talking to. That night, when Annie was doling out the cider to my sisters, I spilled all of mine, then I pretended to drink it down. She didn't notice; after all, the floor of the summer kitchen was dirt, and there were lots of spills in a house with six children.
I waited a long time after she put us to bed, and I didn't fall asleep. So, maybe she wasn't fibbing about the sleeping potion!
When I finally heard Annie talking, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed ever so quietly, being careful to step over the squeaky floorboard by the doorway to the kitchen, and peeked in.
I never would have guessed it. Annie was talking to a face floating in the fireplace!
"They're such good folk, Mum, salt of the earth; the children are happy, curious and polite. Life is wonderful here. I'd so hate to leave them."
Her mother spoke funny, like she was talking about other people. Maybe it's how they do it in Scotland. "Oh, but Annie must leave! Annie's Mum is begging her to go! Annie's Father will find you there, for now he has been told where Annie does her underage magic. His goblin minions will bring Annie back, and you will be a miserable scullion in his home."
Annie was quiet the longest time. I thought she might be weeping.
"All right, Mum. I'll move on. And maybe I can find a job where I won't ever have to do magic until I'm of age. Then he'll never find me."
"Annie is wise to do so. Annie makes Annie's Mum happy."
"It'll break their hearts, and mine, but I'll move on tonight. And you make me happy, Mum. Take care; God bless the elves."
"Good night, Annie.'
I tiptoed back to bed, but still couldn't fall asleep. Annie was going to leave us tonight?
She quietly slipped into our room, kissed each one of us without waking, and took down her portmanteau from the top of the wardrobe. She waved her hand, and clothes began flying in the doorway -- from her little room and from the wash, I'd imagine. Then she left the room, and a minute later, the back door clicked shut.
I went to a back window, and saw her walk in the moonlight to the side road. She waved her hand over the road, and the most remarkable sight came by: a stagecoach, but three stories high!
Annie boarded, and it headed off toward Westphalia. It was the last we ever saw her.
I know that's not exactly what you asked for, son, but I thought it was related, and would help you decide. The answer to your specific question is, no, I never heard of anyone in our family being a wizard or witch, nor have I ever heard of the "Salem Witches Institute." But if all magic folk are anything like Annie, I'm proud for you, and I think my granddaughter would be doing well to answer that letter.
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'bugs in dew is all squenched away, -
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!