The musty, damp smell of earth engulfs me, blocking the sharp, acute smells of night from outside my den. My bushy tail, tipped with white, flicks, causing the leaves and moss that make up my nest to rustle and scatter. It does not matter. I shall see to it come daylight, for now it is my time to prowl. The moon is full and the time is right, I must emerge. I crawl on my belly up through the narrow tunnel, into the night. The night air bites at my nose but is not flagrant, only thrilling, as if promising a successful hunt. As I enter the outside, I am cautious but not fearful, for these woods are mine, at least for now. The silver luminous moon tosses shafts of light through the pine boughs, casting eerie shadows across my path. I pick up a casual lope through the trees, the moon putting a silvery luster on my coat. I know where I am headed, the meadow. After crossing a stream, I reach my ultimate destination, a field cloaked in moonlight, crawling with prey. I stop at the edge, testing the air, listening for the pumping of a minute heart. The grass rustles beneath my paws as I enter the field. I sit and wait, head low, cupped ears ready to detect any small sound, tail still as stone. No sound comes to my ears and all smells are stale. Where is the prey that has been subject to my hunt innumerable times? Perhaps if I follow the field down further, prey will once again be plentiful. Disheartened, I rise and set off again, hoping my efforts don’t prove fruitless. The rabbit bobs and weaves, barely eluding my teeth At last the warm, tangy smell of rabbit finds my nose. Almost at once, I spot the long-eared prey, nibbling on a grass stalk, without any inkling of my presence. Crouched low, I slide through the grass, nose twitching. Like a coiled spring, I crouch, and then launch my lithe body at the hare, limbs uncoiling, teeth bared. However, at the last minute, the rabbit shuffles to the right of where it was, leaving me to land awkwardly, just missing by inches. The startled rabbit leaps in alarm and bounds off across the field. I dart after it, tail whipping behind me. The rabbit bobs and weaves, barely eluding my teeth. After what seems like eons, the rabbit shoots down its hole, leaving me empty- pawed above. I growl in frustration, having come so close to snaring my first catch of the night, but moonlight is waning and I must continue. I lift my head, only to find that I’m in a part of the field that I have never been in before. During my chase with the hare, I had not noticed the unnatural glow that obscured the moonlight and bathed the grass in its sickly luster. Curious, I slink forward, keeping low and silent. There, hidden by the trees, looms a huge shape, like none I have ever seen. As I approach the shape (which by now I have assumed is a human’s house), a deep bark originates from an enclosure, adjacent to the house. A dog. I should have known. All of a sudden, the light in the house flashes on and a loud voice roars from the structure. Though I don’t know what it means, it’s probable that this is my cue to flee, which I do. I turn in the darkness and run, run with all I have. The night blurs around me. A bang and a roar rip through the woods, causing the ground beneath me to explode. Startled, I forget to watch my feet and I tumble nose over tail through the grass, landing hard on my side. I glance back; long enough to see the gopher hole that snared my leg. My chest heaves, my breathing is ragged, and a throbbing pain begins to grow in my front leg. For once I fear for my life. If I move now, I will draw attention to myself, and the pain in my leg is so immense, a quick getaway would be near impossible. However, if I stay here, my presence may be prominent, if the human saw me go down. Panicked, I turn the choices over in my head. I will wait. I lie on my side, watching the moon move across the sky. No one comes. I test the air. The coast is clear, at least for now. Painstakingly, I raise one foot after the other but cannot bear any weight on my injured foot. Knowing not how far it is back to my den, I set out, hoping to make it home before daylight spreads its rosy arms and engulfs the land once again. After limping my way to the end of the field, it feels as if my foot has been engulfed in flames, and all of my other paws are sore. By the time I reach the stream, I almost topple into it, but I quench my immense thirst and soak my throbbing foot in the icy, cool depths. It relieves some of the pain and helps eradicate the swelling, but the pain is still present and I still cannot bear any weight upon my lame foot. My tail droops and my head is hung low, yet my den is only a short ways from here. After much toil, I at last reach my den, just as I had left it. I limp to the entrance and wiggle down the tunnel, the damp air a shocking change from the dry night air. Without even fixing my nest, I collapse, exhausted, into a much deserved deep sleep. However, I will return to the meadow tomorrow, for I am the silent one, the one that stalks on light paws, the whisper of night. Jenna Fields, 12Coyote, California Madeleine Alexander, 10Keller, Texas
Animals
Imprisoning the Manatees
I squeeze my eyes shut and yank the plastic goggles from my face. Pulling them away, I swipe at the inside, attempting to clear away the fog that is obstructing my vision. My feet are coated by the gooey bottom of the Crystal River. The rest of my group remains face down in the water, searching for manatees. I shiver and my goggles fog up again. I stagger blindly towards the large white blob that I know is the motorboat. The water swirls and swishes around my legs as I walk against the current. I plunge one foot, then another, into the quaggy river bottom. “Almost there!” I sigh, and trudge onward. Suddenly, I trip on a large object floating in the water. I fall onto its slippery surface and my feet search for the bottom. I take a deep breath and submerge my face into the murky depths. I see a beautiful blue-gray creature that I recognize at once as a manatee. Its shell-shaped tail strongly and majestically propels the animal forward. I lift my head and stare down into the clear patch of water. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I consider calling out to my group as instructed, but at the same time I don’t want to. I don’t want this gorgeous creature to be hounded by humans. “I’m sorry,” I whisper I glance over at the manatee tour guide through my now clear goggles. He has river water and brume covering his goggles. I think of the rules: do not chase the manatees, do not scare them, and do not touch them. There are fines for breaking these rules and yet the tour guides are paid to break them! They are paid to hunt down manatees in motorboats. They are paid to dump people within two feet of these beautiful, endangered creatures. How is this any different from anyone else chasing a manatee? I take a deep breath and watch the manatee swim away from me and toward the other end of the river, toward momentary freedom. This time my vision is obstructed by tears. Kerri Prinos, 13Concord, Massachusetts Maia Jackson, 13Long Beach, California
CJ
Whenever we found one of the ducks alone, it meant something was probably wrong It happened Christmas Day. I had gone outside to check on my ducks, when Scooter, the male pompom-headed Bali duck, came out from under the porch. I figured he had been sleeping down there. I crawled under to check on the girls, Cheepers and Smiley, who would probably be under there still asleep. Ducks always stay in flocks and our three always stuck together. Whenever we found one of the ducks alone, it meant something was probably wrong. But when I looked, the girls weren’t anywhere to be seen. I checked in the bushes next to the front porch, thinking maybe they were under there and I just hadn’t seen them. They weren’t under there either. I looked around wildly, trying to figure out where they could have gone. Scooter seemed to be just realizing that they weren’t with him and began to quack, looking worried. I ran down the boardwalk into the swampy, muddy wetland area in the woods behind the house. There in the distance I heard the faint sound of a female duck’s distress call. I ran to the section of woods where the puddles start, where the ducks often went to eat the bugs that lived under the leaves and in the mud. About twenty feet away I saw a white blob in a puddle. That was one of the two. I was about to run over to her, but she seemed perfectly fine, and she wasn’t the one quacking. I knew I had to find the other one. The quacking sound seemed to be coming from the middle of the woods. I quickly started running in that direction. I had yanked off my fleece-lined Crocs and woolen socks so I wouldn’t get them all wet. Luckily, there was no snow, just a thin layer of ice I could easily break through with my feet. Pretty soon I could just make out a white-and-brown wine bottle shape. Usually that’s not how you describe a duck. You think of fat mallards that waddle around or swim in a pond. These, however, were Indian Runner ducks, which are tall and skinny. They run instead of waddle and they don’t live in ponds. They’re what you typically think of as puddle ducks. When my duck saw me, she kept on quacking but walked over in my direction. I scooped her up and saw that she was Smiley. Smiley had gotten her name from the first time I saw her, when she had just hatched and was still inside the egg incubator. Because ducks tilt their heads to look up or down, and because of the way the corners of their bills curl, it looks just like they are beaming up at you. Still, no matter how smiley her face looked right then, I could tell she was pretty freaked out. Her eyes were wide and, although I was carrying her, she looked like she was trying to stand on her toes. I tried to calm her down, telling her that Scooter was back at the house and that I had seen Cheepers on my way over. As we neared the puddle that Cheepers was in I noticed something odd about her. Her body looked limp and I couldn’t see her head. I quickly put Smiley down and started running towards her. Tears were already streaming down my face. I crouched beside her and stroked her back. Her head was curled under her body and her wings were spread out on either side, as if she were trying to bear the weight of something on her back. * * * We buried her in a clearing next to a stone wall just behind our backyard, right next to the grave of our old guinea pig, Toot. Dad dug a hole in which we lowered a model helicopter box, containing not the helicopter that my two brothers had taken out earlier but the brown-and-white, feathered body that had once been a duck named Cheepers. That Tuesday when we went to volunteer at our local farm we borrowed an egg incubator in which we put two eggs. One of these was Cheepers’ last egg. We decided that the first duckling to hatch would be named Cheepers Junior, or CJ for short. Ducks don’t have good memories. After about a week I seriously doubt Scooter and Smiley remembered Cheepers at all, though now, almost a year later, they still haven’t gone back to the woods where we found her. My dad said it was probably a weasel that got her, since the body was not badly damaged; there were just puncture marks on the sides of her neck. * * * Four weeks later, one of the eggs in the incubator started to shake! We began seeing little cracks appearing on the shell. Then the other egg started to shake, and we knew that both of them were going to hatch. A few hours later a little hole appeared in the first egg, which meant it was probably going to hatch that day. Every now and then we could see a tiny orange bill poking through the crack. We started to hear exhausted little cheeps coming from the duckling that was pushing with all its strength to get out of the egg. Then, with one last push, the top of the egg came off, and a wet, feathered head popped out and started looking around. It cheeped and kicked with its tiny feet, because its back end was still inside the egg. It kept on kicking fiercely at the shell until finally his whole body fell out of the egg. The little ducky looked up at us with that smiley expression that all ducks have We took the lid off the incubator and took out the empty shell. The little ducky looked up at us with that smiley expression that all ducks have, and we all looked at
