I love a retelling of an old story. And I love Leo Lionni’s Frederick. A perfectly pitched little book about the importance of art and work in a small field mouse family, Frederick participates in a long tradition of fables of industry.

Lionni sets up the conflict of his story in a few deft sentences: “But the farmers had moved away, the barn was abandoned, and the granary stood empty. And since winter was not far off, the little mice began to gather corn and nuts and wheat and straw. They all worked day and night. All — except Frederick.” Oh no! Winter is coming—and Frederick does not help his family gather food. What will become of him?

At this point, only a few sentences into the book, my mind is immediately cast back to old fables of industry, in particular Aesop’s The Ant and the Grasshopper. Do we all know this story? It’s short:

One bright day in late autumn a family of Ants were bustling about in the warm sunshine, drying out the grain they had stored up during the summer, when a starving Grasshopper, his fiddle under his arm, came up and humbly begged for a bite to eat.

"What!" cried the Ants in surprise, "haven't you stored anything away for the winter? What in the world were you doing all last summer?"

"I didn't have time to store up any food," whined the Grasshopper; "I was so busy making music that before I knew it the summer was gone."

The Ants shrugged their shoulders in disgust.

"Making music, were you?" they cried. "Very well; now dance!" And they turned their backs on the Grasshopper and went on with their work.

There's a time for work and a time for play.

What a brutal indictment of the lazy musician! The Ants bustle, and the Grasshopper begs. The Grasshopper played when he should have worked—so let him dance, and let him starve. Simple.

Another story along these lines is The Little Red Hen, an old fable first printed in the U.S. in the St. Nicholas Magazine in 1874. In this story, a little read hen finds a grain of wheat, plants it, tends it, harvests it, mills it, and bakes bread with it. Every step of the way, she asks the other animals to help her, and at every step they refuse. The story ends this way:

When the bread was baked, the little red hen said, “Who will EAT this bread?” The rat said, “I WILL;” the cat said, “I WILL;” the dog said, “I WILL;” the duck said, “I WILL;” the pig said, “I WILL.” The little red hen said, “No, you WONT, for I am going to do that myself.” And she picked up the bread and ran off with it.

The other farm animals do not even have art as an excuse; they are lazy, and they are cut out of the reward. The hen, justly, eats the bread herself.

Now, I am all for hard work and natural consequences. There are plenty of examples in literature about the wrongs of abusing charity (see Mr. Skimpole, from Dickens’s Bleak House). And I picked up this version of The Little Red Hen at the library this week, fully intending to read it to my kids in an attempt to inculcate them to chores. It ends: “After that, whenever there was work to be done, the little red hen had three very eager helpers.” Doesn’t that sound nice! Personal responsibility, hard work, and helpfulness are worthy pursuits.

I think Leo Lionni would agree. It’s his definition of “work” that differs. The other field mice ask Frederick continuously and reproachfully why he doesn’t work, what he is doing, whether he is dreaming. The first clue to Lionni’s point of view comes after the first questioning: “‘Frederick, why don’t you work?’ they asked. ‘I do work,” said Frederick. ‘I gather sun rays for the cold dark winter days.’” Frederick makes a new claim here: the artist’s life is work. It’s just work of a different kind.

The second half of this story describes the warming, cheering effect of Frederick’s work on his family. In the depths of winter, when the food stores have dwindled and spirits are low, the mice remember what Frederick said during the summer and ask him, “What about your supplies, Frederick?” He begins to describe the summer sun to them and Lionni writes, “And as Frederick spoke of the sun the four little mice began to feel warmer. Was it Frederick’s voice? Was it magic?” They ask him anxiously for more, drinking in this “magic” as a balm to their souls. The book ends with his family’s response to his poem recital: “When Frederick had finished, they all applauded. ‘But Frederick,’ they said, ‘you are a poet!’ Frederick blushed, took a bow, and said shyly, ‘I know it.’” Frederick’s contributions to his little society are acknowledged and appreciated. He is a poet among farmers, and his work matters just as much.

I love Frederick’s quiet confidence throughout the book. He never doubts himself; from beginning to end, he knows that his pursuits are worthy. After all, he doesn’t pursue them selfishly; he cultivates his poetry in order to sustain himself and his family through the cold winter. Yes, they all would have starved without the efforts of the industrious gatherers. But they would also, perhaps, have given in to despair if not for Frederick’s artistic memory.1

This is what differentiates Frederick from Aesop’s Grasshopper. Frederick believes in the value of his art, because he recognizes its place in a healthy society. The Grasshopper, on the other hand, says this: “I didn't have time to store up any food,” whined the Grasshopper; “I was so busy making music that before I knew it the summer was gone.” The Grasshopper makes no argument for his place in society, and makes no offering of music to the Ants. He certainly doesn’t preserve the summer in the same way that Frederick does. If even the artists don’t believe in the value of their art, why shouldn’t society leave them out in the cold?

So let’s thank the artists, shall we? And let’s thank the dish-doers, and the stuff-builders, and the grocery shoppers, and the gardeners, and the tax-filers, and the guitar-players. Because I don’t think Frederick is just about poetry, or even just about art. It’s about those things, yes, and how important they are; but it’s also about how you, the individual, have something individual to contribute to your family and your society. You don’t have to work like everyone else. As Frederick says, “Aren’t we lucky the seasons are four? / Think of a year with one less…or one more!”

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