It snowed last night, first it came down softly, then hard. My father was watching the news this morning, and told me that my school was cancelled because of the slick ice on the roads. My mother said that Jack Frost had done a good job last night. I could tell he did too. The windows had enough frost on them that I could write my name with my warm pink finger, melting the frost. I found this so amusing that soon most of the windows in the house had my name written all over them. When my father saw me still inside, he sent me out to shovel the driveway and scrape the car’s windows. I whined and complained, but my father does have a way with persuading me to do things. So I put on my mittens, zipped up my coat, pulled over my earmuffs, gripped the snow shovel, and made my way outside. A cold chill made its way up my nose and my cheeks, turning them cherry red. Before I started shoveling, I looked around me. Everything looked like a winter palace. The kind of palace you’d think the Snow Queen would have lived in. Forgetting about the chore my father had sent me to do, I dropped the shovel and walked into the winter scene. The naked trees and evergreens had snow stacked on top of their branches. Also, if I hadn’t counted wrong, I only saw one spear of grass coming up from the snow. There were squirrel and rabbit footprints in the white blanket, leading to a tree or burrow. Every one of the tiny details outside was like magic to me. Pure magic. The icicles on the roof, the way the wind would blow snow off tree branches, even my own boot prints, printed in the snow. I felt like I was the Snow Queen in the winter palace, and the chubby robin that was trying to get warm on a tree branch was the Snow King. I felt like I was the Snow Queen in the winter palace “Snow King,” I told the robin. “Come down and play with me.” Frightened by the sound of my voice, the Snow King flew off the branch, although it was hard for him to do this because of all the weight he put on for the winter coldness. As the snowflakes fell, they looked like graceful ballerina dancers, twirling and floating. I stuck out my tongue and a ballerina landed on it. The little ballerina snowflake tasted like frozen water only it had more texture to it. I turned around in circles with my tongue sticking out, catching ballerinas. At the corner of my eye, I saw all of the snow, blanketed on the driveway of my house. At that moment, I remembered the task I was sent to do. But, I didn’t want to leave my winter palace. So I pretended not to remember the driveway, and continued to watch ballerinas dance through the sky. Then, to my surprise, my father came out to see how I was doing with the driveway. “What are you doing?” he asked me. I bit my lip and thought for a moment. “I’m watching a recital of ice ballerinas,”I replied. “While I was sitting at my throne with the Snow King, in a winter palace of pure magic.” I stared at my father. My father stared at me. To my amazement, he smiled. “Can I join?” Delia Rainey, 10St. Louis, Missouri Liza Nikitin, 12South Salem, New York
Nature
On the Bridge of Dawn
Every year spring rushes in with a parade of colors, a symphony of sounds and a thrill of smells. Much as I enjoy the pearly sheen and biting chill of winter, it is the morning when I first wake to hear the steady dripping of melting snow, and breathe that moist, fresh smell of thawing earth that pumps wonder through me every year. To me, spring brings optimism, cheer and love of life swirling and hovering around every corner of nature I turn. It propels me out of bed each morning, and sends me seeking my hopes and dreams much more avidly than before. And best of all, spring promises that long, lazy summer days are ahead of me, full of doing whatever I want to do. In summer there are no deadlines or schedules prying into my consciousness. But spring is the time of year when living grasps me by the elbows and swings me up into paradise, sparkling with such newness that it contains something summer will never have. Today I awake to the lively chirping of birds—robins, chickadees, blue jays; I don’t even mind the squawk of a magpie if it, too, is celebrating spring. It has been spring for some time now—it is mid-April—but I haven’t yet gotten used to all the surprises and delights, for they come every day. I sit up out of bed, push off the covers, and leap to my feet, flinging open the curtains. It must be very early, the light is just creeping sleepily up from behind the trees and rooftops. It won’t be long now before this mix of pastel pinks, oranges and purples shifts into fiery reds and yellows and the full, bright sun emerges, showering the world with the brilliance it has been yearning for. It must be very early, the light is just creeping sleepily up from behind the trees and rooftops Brimming with excitement, I pull myself away from the window, a painted picture of delight, and hurriedly dress in my casual summer wear. No jackets and sweatpants will I have; I want to feel the crisp morning air create goosebumps on my legs and arms. To immerse myself in spring. Remembering that I should be quiet, I tiptoe down the stairs and through the house, wondering how my family can resist the wonder April holds. Then, breathing deeply, I steal outside. A glorious sensation greets me as I enter the magical world of my yard at dawn. I run softly over the grass, a soggy sponge saturating itself with life, and, glancing down, admire the tender spikes beginning to appear on the lawn, pushing up through the dead brown grass of last year. I am heading for my tree, the towering spruce in the corner of my yard. It is my gateway to the sky, from which I can stare down at the houses and people and feel free, as the wind plays with my hair and rocks the tree from side to side. Eagerly, I clamber up onto the fence—the lowest branch is far out of reach when I stand on the ground. Then, using all my strength, I grab onto the two branches and scramble clumsily up—and here I am, in the tree. After a moment of inhaling the fresh air mingled with the sappy smell of wood, I continue, moving quickly through the maze of firm, sturdy limbs I know so well that I could do it with my eyes closed. But now is the time for looking about me, using all my senses to soak in the beauty. Perched high on a branch I gaze dreamily through a window gracefully fringed with fingers of dark green needles. The tree seems to be holding me in a secure, steady grasp, staunchly supporting me at this height. Many times during the year I come here in need of assurance, and this tall, stately tree provides me with everything I need. Even in the midst of this urban neighborhood, my tree stands out over the house relentlessly. Sometimes I think I’d like to be a tree, but in the heart of the forest, providing homes to an abundance of animals and nurturing saplings in my rich, rotting, mossy wood when the time comes to fall. I yearn to be stationary, full of peace and wisdom, not bustling about in a rush like many people today, who don’t seem to have time to stop and simply stare as they contemplate life. I know that soon the rest of the world will wake up, and everyone will hurry off to school or work to grind through another busy day. Heedless of that part of life just for living, they’ll think of nothing but earning money or good grades, that they assume will dramatically improve their diligent lives. But until then, I will sit here in my tree, thinking of nothing but the buds on the trees and this golden moment of dawn. I will hold that moment like a priceless treasure, savoring it to its fullest. Deep down, I know that when the sun peeps just above the horizon, and nothing is awake yet but me and the birds, when everything lies tranquil and untouched, that is all that matters. And this wise old tree knows too. Megan M. Gannett, 13Edmonton, Alberta, Canada Rosemary Engelfried, 13Hillsboro, Oregon
Brutal Deluge
I looked through the small window of my new room, watching heavy streams of water galloping through the streets. Fortunately for me, our house was located high on a hill. My parents had run down to try to help the other villagers. Flood season had come. All I could do was stare, and watch in amazement and horror. Waves and waves of powerful water were streaming down the mountains, tearing everything. It was terrible. I lifted my head, seeing the great Deer Mountain. The Deer was tall, elegant, and dangerous—especially now. What had once been the beautiful white snow of the peak of the Deer’s horn was now gone, and the watery wrath of the Deer was upon us. All I could do was stare, and watch in amazement and horror I did not know why the great Deer was doing this. Perhaps it was because spring had interrupted his peaceful winter sleep. I closed my eyes, hoping that the Deer would find it in his heart to cease. If the Deer would not forgive us, or whatever the cause, our little settlement would soon become a watery grave. My head turned away from the window, eyes red with fright. I walked over to my small bed and lay down. However, I could still hear the splashes outside and the occasional scream. The Deer was especially angry. What a pity. I heard a knock on the door. I didn’t budge. To me, the tap! tap! sounded like the galloping Deer, calling to me. Calling me outside, to its wave of terror. I did not open the door. I would be brave. But, I noticed the cease of splattering and yelling. There was hope. Was it possible that the invisible bear had come, and defeated the Deer? I found the small portion of courage remaining in my heart, and opened the door. It was my father, and he was smiling. Steven Lu, 12Anaheim, California Ashley Burke, 11Cedar Park, Texas
