The word "panjandrum" entered the English language because Samuel Foote wrote a piece of pure nonsense in 1775 to stump an actor who claimed perfect recall. That absurdist fragment became this picture book, the final work illustrated by Randolph Caldecott before his death in 1886. Caldecott, the man who essentially invented the modern picture book and lent his name to the prestigious Caldecott Medal, brought his final burst of kinetic humor to Foote's already-delightful chaos: Picninnies and Joblillies and Garyulies tumbling through comic scenarios, a great she-bear wandering into gardens, apple pies interrupted by bear curiosity. The text ripples with sounds that tumble off the tongue, the kind of linguistic play that makes children laugh at the sheer foolishness of it all. Here is a book that exists for one purpose: to make a small person giggle at the idea of a Grand Panjandrum with a little round button at the top. It has no deeper message, no moral, no lesson. It has bears and nonsense words and the glorious absurdity of grown-ups saying silly things on purpose. That is precisely why it has endured.
