The King of Slippery Falls, by Sid Hite; Scholastic Press: New York, zoo4; $16.95 Imagine it’s your birthday. Your parents gave you a surprising gift that revealed your origin. How would you react? Lewis Hinton, an ordinary boy in The King of Slippery Falls, is shocked on his fifteenth birthday, when he discovers that he’s adopted. For one year, he tries to learn about his real family. On his sixteenth birthday, his adopted mother, Martha, surprises Lewis with a letter from his real mother, J. A. Poisson. The letter reveals Lewis’s real name: Louis Poisson, and his real mother gave him away to Avery, his adopted father, to find her husband and freedom. Lewis is angry with his real mother because she basically abandoned him for her own freedom! Lewis also feels angry with Martha for hiding this for s-i-x-t-e-e-n years! Now that’s quite a long time to keep a secret. If I were Lewis, I probably would have thrown a fit and started screaming in anger, and inside, I would have felt pretty sad, too. Lewis’s friend, Sophie, and an eighty-eight-year-old woman named Maple tell him that he’s of French origin by his last name, Poisson, like my last name, Chakraborti, reveals that I’m of Indian origin. Maple is what’s called “one of a kind.” She told Lewis that he’s possibly descended from King Louis XV She explains life’s gradual, out-of-the-blue, and inspirational changes to Lewis. A person’s life is like a story because both experience these three changes. I found this explanation most interesting. When I saw the misery of the evacuees from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita on TV, I thought it like a major turning point in their lives. The devastation symbolized out-of-the-blue changes for these evacuees. Anyhow, Lewis’s origin gets importance in his one-horse town, Slippery Falls, and the town gets vibrant. Lewis becomes the center of attention in the town. Embarrassed, he tries to stop it. I recall a rumor in my school that I liked a girl, named Laura. I felt that everyone in the school enjoyed their time by conversations involving our relationship. Thank goodness it ended. There’s another important event in this story Lewis spots a trout in the town’s waterfall and he’s determined to catch that fish. One day Lewis goes to the waterfall on his quest. He almost has the fish, but then slips and hits his head against a rock and gets unconscious, and bleeds heavily He’s taken to the hospital. Fortunately, Maple’s blood saves his life. But he fails to achieve his goal. I felt pretty sad about that. Sometimes I try very hard to achieve goals. No matter how much perseverance I have, when I can’t achieve them, I feel down. While he recovers, Lewis decides to go to France to learn about the ways of the French, his people. He and his girlfriend, Amanda, organize a car wash to raise money for the trip. My parents are from India, and last summer, I went there to visit my relatives. Before I went, I learned a little of my native tongue, Bengali, from my parents, like Lewis learned some French before he went to France, from Sophie. Learning Bengali helped me enjoy the Bengali culture while I was there, and now I really like it. Lewis will probably enjoy the French culture. Bon voyage, Louis! Neil Chakraborti, 12Tuscaloosa, Alabama
A Hidden Reflection
In the meadow everything was silent and untouched. Maria looked over the vast field and the woods beyond and everything was blanketed in a thick layer of velvety snow. The air was cold and crisp, and stung Maria’s throat and chest while she panted slightly from the run to this beautiful place. But she didn’t see it as beautiful. Maria thought that the snow’s glare was too harsh and the bitter cold wind was cruel and merciless. She missed the warm sun from back in Hawaii where she was from. This was her first winter here in Oregon and everything about it made her more and more homesick. Instead of breathing in a gentle breeze filled with the fragrant scent of flowers and a touch of pineapple and coconut, she was breathing in nothing but the strong smells of snow and pine needles. Back at home she would have been lying on a warm, soft beach, feeling all the grains of beautiful white sand underneath her. Now she was standing bundled up in prickly scarves and hats with the rattling, empty crunch of snow and frost underneath her. Maria looked around at the meadow and said quietly to herself, “How I wish I was back home. Or at least with my friends.” And then, as if to answer her, a bundle of jackets, scarves, and mittens fell out of the nearby tree, screaming. Maria gasped and ran over just in time to see that there was a girl in the midst of all of them, looking more like she had just won the lottery than fallen out of a fifteen-foot tree. “Whoa! Ha ha ha! That was sooo fun!” she shrieked joyfully. In that reflection Maria saw her days with Sophie ahead of her “Are you OK?” Maria inquired anxiously. The girl merely looked at her in surprise as if seeing her for the first time. Her large blue eyes widened with delight. “Oh, who are you? I’m Sophie! I can’t believe you’re here! Mama told me our neighbors would be arriving soon but I had no idea how soon! Hi!” Sophie looked expectantly at Maria, her eyes fluttering excitedly as if she thought that Maria was about to proclaim that she was a fairy princess from Australia. “Um, I’m Maria. I come from Hawaii. Nice to meet you.” “It’s not nice, it’s spectacular!” exclaimed Sophie, tossing back her curly blond hair with one gloved hand. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend! Come with me! I’ll show you around.” With that Sophie grabbed Maria’s arm and led her around the meadow, pointing out different types of trees and winter animals as they went. They walked so far and long that by the time they were done there was hardly a patch of snow that was not covered in small boot tracks. After a while, Maria gasped, “I don’t think I can take another step, let alone get home. Please let me stop and rest.” “Oh, very well. Hurry, though! I’m going to show you my favorite place in the world.” Maria sat down and felt her heart beating heavily inside of her. Thump, thump, thump. Her mind was racing too. Was she actually having fun? Did she really like it here? What about Hawaii? Home? But Sophie was so nice and funny. Would they be friends? And could she ever forget about the warm beaches and swaying palm fronds? “Are you done yet? It’s gonna get real cold if we just sit here doing nothing.” And with that Sophie burst into a line of cartwheels, finally tumbling into the snow, her hat askew and her freckled face shining with joy and pink from the cold. Maria stood, laughing so hard her cheeks hurt. Sophie stood up too and after a full minute of nonstop laughter she wheezed, “I guess . . . ha ha ha . . . we should carry on. Come on! I’ll show you my special place but I’m warning you, it’s a secret and I mean to keep it that way Just over this way!” Maria followed and watched as Sophie burrowed through the bushes, disappearing into the other side. And then, rather hesitantly, Maria did the same and was immediately in awe of the sight in front of her. They were in a medium-sized enclosed area and Maria’s first impression was that she had somehow journeyed into one of those beautiful sceneries in the movies her older sister, Kami, watched. Taking up most of the space were three cherry-blossom trees, forming a perfectly straight line of strong sturdy trunks and outstretched branches. The branches were almost completely bare but every once in a while Maria could catch a glimpse of a little pink blossom budding and spreading out its delicate petals. In it, it carried the beauty of being so small, serene and tranquil, and outside of it the color was dainty and pastel. “Whoa . . .” “Nice isn’t it?” “It’s not nice, it’s spectacular!” giggled Maria. She never saw sights like this in Hawaii. “Well, that’s not all! You won’t believe what else there is, right behind the trees, hidden by all those flowers and branches.” Maria walked carefully around the trees, not wanting to disturb something so pure and beautiful. And true enough; hidden behind the rest, there was a small pond of crystal ice, the sun’s weak light bouncing off of it and the cherry-blossom trees casting spiral shadows over it. Maria looked deeply into it and saw that while the outer layer was ice, beneath that there were a few inches of tinkling water. And almost completely hidden by the ice, there was a faint reflection of two girls looking back up at them. One was blond, fair-skinned, and had huge blue eyes. The other had dark brown eyes surrounded by long eyelashes, a cinnamon- colored complexion, and long black hair. In that reflection Maria saw her days with Sophie ahead of her, and their blooming
Tickle Me Pink
Buzz! The familiar sounds of bees pierce my ears As I lay on the dewy morning grass. Sprawled next to me is Tessa, My younger sister, Doodling with her favorite crayon. “Tickle Me Pink, Isn’t that a funny name?” I ask. Squish! I roll over to hear her reply, and Stubbles of the freshly mowed grass stick to my back. Giving me her naive face she answers, “What color is your heart?” Not wanting to confuse the toddler, I flop against the pole of the basketball hoop with a Thud! “What color is spring?” Tessa persists. I was too old for her childish games, “I don’t know, now hurry up it’s at least 1000 degrees out!” The grass squelches as she stumbles towards me, Waving her drawing like a trophy She sticks it in my face, and I see her masterpiece: A picture of her and me, Lying together in the grass On a warm spring day “Your heart is pink,” She points to my chest in the drawing, “And so is spring.” She points to the grass, sky, and flowers. And at that moment, my Tickle-Me-Pink heart Is a blossoming bud. Marissa Bergman, 12Farmington, Connecticut
The Animal Kingdom
Clouds lollygagged across the sky, carried gently by the occasional half-hearted gust of wind. The sun, giving its all for that clear sunny perfect day we’d been hoping for, was defeated by the humid cloud that seemed to swallow up all of Pinckney, Michigan. We were left sticky and disgusted but somehow satisfied with the green grass that had finally replaced the snow. Sounds like any old April day, right? Ha! That’s what I thought too. If I could have predicted the future then, I wouldn’t come back to this memory, my last good memory with him, every other night in my dreams. If I could undo everything now and relive it over and over again and never feel anything but the feeling I had then and there, I’d be happy I would be honestly happy for the rest of my life. Yeah, if I could undo everything and erase the unwanted, everything would be fine. But I can’t, and it’s not. You see, it started as just another one of my trips to Michigan to visit my crazy, gotta-love-’em, family. Mom was hustling around, neatly stuffing all of the essentials into suitcases. Dad was doing what she told him to. Fluffy, our cat, was lying on the suitcases, effectively protesting our departure. And I was going through a mental list of everything I needed and always forgot: alarm clock—check; riding jeans and sneakers—check; underwear—check; hair towel—ooh . . . the hair towel—check. It was all normal. Things still proceeded as normal from the taxi ride, to the plane ride, to the two-hour car ride to my grandparents’ house in Pinckney, Michigan. I loved the beautiful spot. Grandpa loved us, and we all loved being there . . . together When we finally arrived we were greeted with hugs and kisses from my aunts, cousins and of course my grandma and grandpa. There, and only there, my mother finally relaxed and got prepared for sleeping in and no cooking. I was happy too for I was at my favorite place in the world. What could be better than to be spoiled, loved, always have something to do, and be surrounded by cousins? Days in Michigan were always laid back: sometimes we would go to Screams, a Halloween-themed ice cream store appropriately placed in Hell, Michigan; other times we would ride horses, go to the lake, or just hang out and be with each other. I guess it didn’t really matter what we did, as long as it was with the people we loved. The first day started like it always did in Michigan, at 7:30, to the TV news and laughing voices of my grandparents. I tiptoed down the squishy-carpeted steps like I always did and snuggled into my spot in my grandpa’s lap. Then after a minute, he started drumming his fingers on my knee, like he always did. As the day proceeded, my newly crowned four-year-old cousin came over and was excited to see me, her magical cousin. After chasing her around for half the day and laughing a lot, I was tired and the humid air got me feeling stickier than a melted popsicle, but no, Katie wasn’t tired. At that point I dragged her over to where my grandpa was sitting drinking some ice water on the porch and I gave him a look. He seemed to receive it correctly as “Help me!” because he looked at Katie and asked her if she wanted to go on a picnic. I watched and smiled as her little blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped. I followed her into the kitchen where we packed some crackers and pop in a little wooden basket with a quilt. We then tromped back out and met my grandpa where he was standing, turning off the electric fences that contained the horses. We started walking past the barn—a place filled with happy memories of horseback riding. Inside I could hear hoofs hitting the ground, music playing and my aunt singing along. We kept walking into the pasture where Peaches and Misty, the large, beastly, gorgeous inhabitants, munched on their evening hay, and down the long hill to the back of the pasture, farther and farther away from my grandma who I could still see in the bright kitchen happily making dinner. I had never been that far back in my grandparents’ property. I asked him where we were going but he just said, “You’ll see.” I laughed and looked over at my little cousin who was smiling and looking very excited. We kept walking, past the compost pile and the garden, past the little heap of junk that we never got around to cleaning up, farther and farther into the silence broken only by the occasional chirp of the crickets. We finally ducked under a broken part of the fence and entered a new world, our world. Katie called it the Animal Kingdom. There weren’t many inhabitants: just some bunnies, a gopher we expected by the hole, the occasional deer, and some bugs. You might think that it was generous to call it an animal kingdom but that is what it was. In our kingdom we found a broken metal chair that looked like it had been sitting there for years, obviously of a long, royal, mysterious past. That would be the throne. We also found some ducks, a mommy and a daddy, that would be the king and queen. You might say it was nothing special, just a grassy spot on the edge of a secret duck pond, sheltered by trees and high grass. Forgotten and taken over by the bugs. But it wasn’t, not to us. We loved it. Katie loved the bramble bushes, which, if you were willing to get scratched a little and push aside the branches, revealed a top-secret hideaway I loved the beautiful spot. Grandpa loved us, and we all loved being there . . . together. We had our picnic on the edge of
Find Your Voice
The trees shook madly as Carmen Gonzalez made her way to a towering oak named El Grande Oak. She sat down on the roots that had managed to break through the ground. It was the only place she could be away from the chaos of her own home and relax in the quiet of the Marongo woods. Wildflowers and thornbushes covered the ground, while oak and birch trees towered overhead. It was the quietest place in the small town of Marongo, a town a little south from Madrid. Nobody chose to vacation to Marongo, but it was not frowned upon. There were no national landmarks, but small miracles were popular. It was not paradise, but it had its own inner beauty. Carmen situated herself against the great oak as she opened her journal and took out her pen. Then she started to recite the day’s highlights in her head. Every night, after the candles went out, she would sneak a match and candle from the cupboard. She would then make her way quietly with her journal and pen to the big oak where she sat now. Nothing at her home was ever like the calming Marongo woods. Carmen had three sisters (one younger, two older) and three brothers (two younger, one older). She was the middle child, and “the beauty of the family” While her mother and siblings had short, stringy hair and big, long noses, Carmen had long, thick hair and a short, cute nose. Her outer beauty shone brighter than her inner beauty, though, for she was very shy. She liked to keep to herself, which was extremely hard at home. Her brothers and sisters were always playing loudly and obnoxiously, while Carmen enjoyed calmness and quiet in a household. Suddenly, a bright light came from nowhere,and in it appeared a small girl. Carmen had had a friend once, named Maria Rodriguez. Maria had moved to New York, with Carmen’s father as the guide and helper. They had all died in the crashing of the World Trade Center. Every night, after visiting the Marongo woods, Carmen would lie in her bed and recall the details about her father and her best friend. Carmen thought of her friend often, also kind yet very shy. She was so kindhearted, though, she would have achieved great things if she had lived, Carmen thought. Suddenly, out of the darkness and the stillness, a bright light came from nowhere, and in it appeared a small girl. She had short black hair and a beautiful, Hispanic face. She was dressed in a gold ball gown, with white lace on the sleeves. Carmen thought the girl was strangely familiar. Then it hit her. “Maria,” Carmen said very quietly, almost like a whisper. “Hola, Carmen,” Maria said in a clear, tall voice, which was highly peculiar for Maria was very shy, even with her friends. “I have been sent on a mission to tell you a story I heard right before I died.” “Once, there was a beautiful maiden named Rita Diaz. She was daughter to the baker of the town. She was shy and quiet, but very kind. One day, Rita received a letter asking for her hand in marriage. She was too shy to refuse, so she was sent away to live with her new husband, Antonio Rivera, and his family She soon realized that he was a cruel, mean man who even disobeyed his elders. Rita was too shy to ask for a divorce, so she stayed. Her husband made many terrible choices for her, so she was led into a hard, cold life. The end. “Rita is like you, Carmen,” Maria said after finishing her story “If you wish to have a lovely life full of grace and happiness, you must learn to speak your own voice. Do not be scared to show your feelings. Carmen, do not be shy any longer, for I am watching over you, as is your father. Find your voice, and use it.” With that, there was another burst of light, and Maria Rodriguez floated up into the sky, producing beautiful, silver wings. Carmen let Maria’s words sink in. She had been letting other people take over her life. She had to get a voice, one that was her own. She knew it would not be easy, for she was already fourteen years old. Yet she knew that if she tried her hardest, she could succeed. Erin Bennett, 11Chicago, Illinois Susannah Benjamin,12Greenwich, Connecticut
Powder Monkey
Powder Monkey, by Paul Dowswell; Bloomsbury USA Children’s Books: New York, 2005; $16.95 Imagine the fear of being blown to pieces at any minute! Thirteen-year-old Samuel Witchall constantly faced this horror in the action-packed historical adventure, Powder Monkey. Being blown up was just one danger Sam had to endure aboard a Navy fighting ship in 1800. While reading this book, I kept wondering why any boy who wasn’t crazy would want to be a sailor in this time period. But it was the book’s vivid descriptions that helped me understand the thrill of a reckless adventure and how it could tempt men and boys out of their comfortable homes to the sea. The book opens with Sam wishing to be a sailor so he can discover the world beyond his tiny town. He ends up on a merchant ship which is quickly taken over by a British Royal Navy frigate called the HMS Miranda. This sleek, 32-gun boat is so precisely described I felt I was bobbing in the sea looking up at its dazzling beauty. Sam is forced to work on the vessel as a powder monkey, running back and forth to the Miranda’s gun deck delivering powder to the cannon crews. Sam is told he needs to be like a monkey because monkeys are nimble creatures. He’s also told if one stray spark floats onto his gunpowder delivery he will be blown to a pink mist! I’ve never heard of a more stressful job for a kid than powder monkey. Sam had to confront so much brutal stuff, including: fierce fighting, raging storms, punishment, mutiny, and death. Yet, the day-to-day annoyances of Sam’s life hit me the hardest. I’m not a morning person, and on a Navy ship in 1800 I would have been extremely miserable. If a sailor isn’t awake and out of his hammock in double speed, the hammock is cut down or the sailor’s head is assaulted by a knotted rope! I wouldn’t get used to this. Sam never did. Sam says he “dreamed of a fresh, warm bed, and the freedom to stay in it until the weariness left his bones.” Up until reading this book, I thought it was really hard to get out of bed for school. Now I realize things could be much worse. I can’t imagine giving up my safe, warm home for Sam’s life! This doesn’t mean, however, I wasn’t captivated by every word describing Sam’s adventures. By far, my favorite part of this book was when Sam’s courage is tested after a Spanish ship captures the Miranda in a miserable battle. Sam’s crewmates plan to take their ship over again, with Sam playing a key role. He sneaks through dark passages, swims through freezing, rat-filled water and outsmarts his captors on his way to the weapons room where he steals cutlasses, axes, and swords. Sam’s adventure made my heart race as I tried to imagine how stealthy and brave I could be in this situation. Until Powder Monkey, the author, Paul Dowswell, had never written a fiction book. He wrote mostly history and science books. For a rookie fiction writer, Mr. Dowswell sure tells an absorbing tale. Knowing the author’s background, I’m not surprised this book is brimming with actual history and technical maritime details. This is a really great book that I’d recommend to many people, including: historical fiction readers, Blackbeard and other pirate fans, maritime history buffs and lovers of the movie Master and Commander! In my case, I’m always looking for an unforgettable adventure. I found a WILD one in Powder Monkey! Jackson Jaro, 9Santa Rosa, California
A Golden Dog After All
Ruthie Spokes was a lover of golden retrievers. She was captivated by their silky, golden coats, and their sweet, lovable nature. She often begged her parents to get her a golden retriever, and by the time Ruthie was eleven, her parents knew Ruthie would settle for no other dog. She would have never guessed that one dark, rainy night, before her birthday, her dream was almost about to come true… Ruthie threw the covers away from her. What was that noise? It sounded like it was coming from… the garage. Trying not to awaken her sleeping seven-year-old sister, Julie, she crept down the bunkbed ladder and opened the door. Peering around quickly, she tiptoed down the stairs and to the door that led to the garage. Voices drifted to her ears. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have bought the Irish setter,” she heard her father say “You know Ruthie will be upset he’s not a golden.” “But all the golden retrievers we looked at were filthy and sick,” her mother reasoned. Ruthie gasped. “What was that?” Mom said. Before Ruthie could run away, the door swung open. “Ruthie!” her father said in a surprised voice. Ruthie looked at her feet. “Well, come in,” he sighed. “Happy birthday.” Ruthie walked in to see the puppy her parents were talking about. He ran to Ruthie, barking ecstatically. “He’s not a golden,” Ruthie said to herself. To her parents she said, “Th-thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad.” He may be lucky, Ruthie thought, but I’m not “You’re welcome,” they replied. Ruthie’s fifteen-year-old brother, Sam, opened the door, holding Julie on his hip. “What’s all the commotion?” he yawned. “Julie was scared out of her wits.” “A puppy!” Julie cried, forgetting all sleepiness. “What are you gonna call him, Ruthie?” “Shamrock,” Ruthie said sadly, though no one noticed. “Ireland’s Lucky Shamrock.” “Nice name,” Sam approved. He may be lucky, Ruthie thought, but I’m not. * * * As Ruthie climbed the stairs to her room Shamrock followed behind her, pouncing and growling at her heels. When they reached the bedroom Ruthie shared with her sister, Shamrock crawled into his blue-polka-dot doggy bed, and promptly began chewing on a stuffed toy. Her parents had helped her set up Shamrock’s things in Ruthie’s room. Ruthie climbed up the bunkbed ladder and lay down. Ruthie glanced over at Shamrock. The doggy bed was three sizes too big for him, and the carrier that contained newspaper for bathroom breaks was gargantuan to the little puppy But Shamrock didn’t seem to mind. He contentedly chewed the stuffed animal’s leg slowly. Ruthie reached under the covers of her bed and pulled out a book hidden there. It was entitled, Owner’s Guide to Golden Retrievers. The spine was broken and a few pages torn from constant use. Each picture of a dog was marked with a different name. Ruthie smiled as she remembered how she used to play “dogs.” She would carefully set out food and water, patiently groom the “dogs,” and take each individual for a long walk down the sidewalk. Now Ruthie turned to the page that had a picture showing a smiling girl and a happy golden retriever puppy. Under the picture it said: Best Friends. “What are you reading?” a voice asked. Ruthie jumped, and seeing that it was her mother, hastily shut the book and sat on it. “Oh, n-nothing, Mom,” Ruthie stammered. “I was just reading about what to do when you first get a puppy.” Mom stared at Ruthie’s pale face for a moment. Then she said, “I know you’re disappointed. You were hoping for a golden retriever, weren’t you?” Ruthie nodded. “I know you always wanted a golden, but all the golden retriever puppies we looked at were overpriced and unhealthy. We didn’t want to spend money on veterinary bills, so we picked a healthy, active Irish setter puppy. He’s not a golden retriever, but who knows?” She smiled. “This setter pup may turn out to be a golden dog, too.” She bent over and kissed Ruthie. “Now you get some sleep. Don’t keep Julie awake.” Ruthie smiled a crooked smile. “Thanks, Mom,” Ruthie grinned. * * * Ruthie awoke with a start for the second time that night. She heard a weird whining sound. Then she remembered: Shamrock. She peered over the edge of her bed. She saw Shamrock pacing the ground, crying. Ruthie dropped lightly from the ladder. “What is it, boy?” Ruthie whispered. Shamrock stared at her with a sad, hollow stare. Ruthie thought for a moment, and then walked to the bathroom, Shamrock right behind her. Ruthie found a hot water bottle and filled it with hot water. She then wrapped it in a towel, and placed it in Shamrock’s bed. She carefully placed Shamrock in the bed. Shamrock snuggled close to the water bottle. He stopped crying. Ruthie turned to leave, but as she stepped away Shamrock cried out and leaped toward her. Sighing, Ruthie dragged her pillow and blanket by Shamrock’s bed, and lay down. Shamrock jumped into his bed, satisfied. Shamrock licked Ruthie’s face, then fell asleep. * * * The next morning Ruthie was licked awake enthusiastically by Shamrock. “OK, OK, I’m awake,” groaned Ruthie, sitting up. “I’m going to get your breakfast.” Ruthie poured the dog kibble into Shamrock’s blue bowl. She then filled the other bowl with fresh water from the bathroom. She placed both bowls far away from the carrier, which was going to be used as Shamrock’s bathroom. As soon as Ruthie set the bowls down, Shamrock shot forward and started devouring the kibble. Ruthie grabbed his collar and pulled him back. “No,” she said firmly. She knew if she let Shamrock eat quickly, he could get a tummyache. After Shamrock finished chewing the first mouthful, Ruthie let go of his collar and Shamrock darted forward again. Ruthie pulled him back and said very firmly, “Shamrock, that’s no.” Shamrock ate slowly after that. As Ruthie joined the table with her mom and siblings, Shamrock
Joys of the Night
At first glance, only shadows Only wisps of black knitted into The patchwork quilt of springy turf Where magic warms the notes of moon’s music, Light playing upon scruffy T-shirt and shorts, Hair swirling, legs Twirling, Hoping to gather treasure in her net Then out of dark and fresh-lain night: A tiny little bead of light Up, up swoops the net with arms raised high And the balls of bare feet jump to meet The moon And lo, the little flickerin’ thing Is caught up in the net And she reaches balled fist in eagerly, Band-Aids patching up hurts of yesterday, And tiny, warty fingers fix themselves round their catch, But, try as she will to cut off its light, Clasping both hands round the firefly, She cannot kill the hope of the creature That has been caught before, And the giggles, the attempts to close in the beams of yellow Only amuse the moon For what would parents know of such important matters? And as she releases the firefly’s light It sails back off into the night. Katie Ferman, 13Three Lakes, Wisconsin
A Morning in the Orchard
I’m lying on my back in my grandfather’s orchard, staring up at the branches above me. It is one of the last days of summer. Already the days are shorter and the nights are cooler. Some kinds of apples are already ripe. Others will be ready to pick soon. I think of my grandmother’s apple pie, and how I used to make it with her. She died last year, before the apple harvest, and I have not had her pie since. I really miss her. I hear bees busily humming about, visiting the late summer flowers. Fall is quickly approaching, and the bees move from flower to flower, collecting pollen to make the sweet honey that they will dream about all winter. They are landing so softly on flowers that it barely makes the flowers dance. The gentle hum of their wings nearly lulls me to sleep. The sky is as blue as my grandfather’s eyes. Above me, big white clouds race across the sky like pieces of cotton blowing in the wind. I look for pictures in the clouds. One looks like a dog chasing after a ball. Another looks like a frog jumping off of a lily pad. School starts in another week, and time seems to have slowed down. I hear the branches moving in the closest tree. I look up and see a squirrel, flicking his bushy tail, his eyes happily laughing at me. I don’t know what he finds so funny. And then I see it, the perfect apple! Big, ripe, and juicy, it hangs far above my head. I scramble up the last few feet, and grab the shiny apple in my hands I scrape my hands on the rough bark of the trunk as I struggle to reach the lowest branch on the tree. I let go of the trunk and leap for the branch, an adrenaline rush temporarily conquering my fear of heights. I catch it in my hands and hang from it, slowly swinging, surprised that I have made it this far without falling. Slowly, painstakingly, I pull myself up onto the branch. Standing on the thickest part of it, closest to the tree, I look up. The apple is still far above me. I continue climbing higher, using the same tactic for every large branch that I meet. The smaller branches get in my way, scratching my face and tangling my long, black hair. I pass many beautiful apples, dripping with dew and warmed by the sun, but none are the perfect apple I am after. I scramble up the last few feet, and grab the shiny apple in my hands. My mouth begins to water. I can almost taste the apple, sweet and yet tart at the same time. Crisp… juicy… with a nice big… hole? A hole?! Now I know what the squirrel was laughing at. Over in the next tree, he chatters again. I throw the apple at him. Of course I miss. His eyes still smiling, he runs away, jumping from tree to tree across the orchard until I lose sight of him. “Sophie!” calls my grandfather. “Is that you?” I scamper down the tree, take his hand, and tell him all about my day as we walk through the orchard. We talk about apples, and squirrels, and Grandma. He tells me that he misses her too. He puts his rough, brown farmer’s hand around my shoulder and pulls me close. “You know, Sophie,” he says, “I spent the morning in the attic, and you’ll never guess what I found. It’s the recipe for Grandma’s apple pie. I used to help her make it sometimes. I can’t do it all alone, but you used to help her too. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure it out. Wanna try?” “But it won’t be the same without Grandma,” I tell him. “That’s true,” he says, “but nothing is the same without Grandma. Still, I don’t think that she would want us to never have another apple pie. What do you say?” I nod yes, and we walk towards home… towards an afternoon in the farmhouse kitchen, making Grandma’s famous apple pie. William Gwaltney, 10Englewood, Colorado
The Leaf and the Web
Lines… Veins… Silky Strands… One red leaf on a green tree, Swaying all alone in the wind One red leaf falling through the chilled fall air Swirling in the twilight. A busy spider in the early hours of dawn, Silk webbing falling behind, Swirling strand, into lines, into web of silk. Twilight One red leaf is swirling, Falling it twirls one more time, A beauty… A web with one red leaf Intertwined in the silky strands. Taylor Nelsen, 11Greenville, North Carolina
Going Home
In the blink of an eye, one chapter of your life changes into another. Someone that you knew since you were a toddler becomes a stranger. A place that you’ve memorized by heart becomes unfamiliar. And you, you’ve changed so much that your childhood best friend wouldn’t recognize you if you appeared right before them. It’s been three years since I’ve felt the North Carolina air around me, three years since I last said goodbye to my closest friends, three years since I left my native home. I expected everything to be the same as I left it. I expected everyone to be who they were back then. Only after my brief visit back home did I finally come to realize that I expected too much. As we drove past the tall, looming trees and the wide, dusty lanes, my parents pointed out all the different things that they remembered. I didn’t remember anything. Only as we entered our old neighborhood did I finally have memories pushing themselves to the front of my mind. Home, I thought, I’m finally back home. Familiar houses passed us by, well-known paths and gardens seemed to welcome us back warmly. Yet, something had changed. I just didn’t know what. All my friends welcomed me back with friendly smiles and familiar words All the adults gushed about the changes in my appearance, notably my height. All my friends, who were all grown up themselves, welcomed me back with friendly smiles and familiar words. They filled me in on all the things that I’ve missed out on and on all the changes of our community. They all seemed like strangers to me, it seemed like I was meeting them for the first time. But as the days passed, their facades disappeared, and they became, once again, the people that I knew so well. The people who I could tell my innermost secrets to, and the people who I shared all my childhood memories with. My love and care towards them returned and our friendships were revived. One night, we were all crowded around the television screen, watching the intensity of the basketball game on television. Our home team, which we all loved deeply, against some unknown college. We cheered as victories were made and groaned as the other team gained points. We were all on the edges of our seat as the final minutes of the game came upon us. When we won only by a narrow margin, we exploded, cheering like mad. Only then did memories of our past come swimming back at me. They all told me that Texas had changed me, that I was an entirely different person. My love for pop music slowly gave way to the fun country songs. Healthy East Coast dishes gave way to fried foods and steak. My hair grew out, I adored shopping malls and makeup, my clothing style became unknown to them. But at the end of the week, they too realized, that deep down inside, I was still that little girl who cherished her stuffed animals and saved every blemished photograph in her memory box. On my last day in North Carolina, I sat down on the little bed and thought. I thought about how much everyone had changed, about how much I, myself had changed. I had made plenty of new friends, and I wouldn’t give up my new Texas home for anything. I had eventually moved on and became a different person. But then, as I waved goodbye to all the people that I loved, a little voice inside my head reminded me that, only here is where my heart truly belongs. Only here is home. Note: This story is a sequel to “Moving On,” which appeared in the January/February 2005 issue of Stone Soup. Caroline Lu, 13Friendswood, Texas Olga-Teodora Todorova, 12Plovdiv, Bulgaria
Voices of War
Voices of War edited by Tom Wiener; National Geographic: Washington D.C., 2oo4; $3o Don’t get scared away by the title or how many pages in this book. It is really the Voices of Heroes. Veterans who served in World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the Persian Gulf talk about what happened to them in the wars. It’s like sitting down with someone’s grandfather or uncle or brother and hearing them tell stories that you will never learn about anywhere else. On page 127, Ben Snyder remembers on December 7, 1944 that it had been three years since he heard the horrible news of the Pearl Harbor attack by Japan. He was in the South Pacific still fighting the Japanese and he didn’t know when he would ever go home. When I read that, I remembered the attacks on September 11, 2001, and we are still trying to stop the terrorists. An army nurse, Isabelle Cedar Cook, wrote, “I keep thinking about the children that will soon only know World War II as a chapter in the history books. I wanted very much to share my experiences with them, so I decided to write a book. I called it In Times of War because in times of war things are very different.” One man told about how his brother had been killed. His mother thought the army would fly him home immediately. “Unfortunately, she believed the nonsense the government put in the newspapers during the war for civilian consumption, such as flying soldiers home when tragedy struck a family,” wrote the soldier, William Whiting. He was in the Army’s 802nd Field Artillery Battalion. When he saw dead German soldiers he wrote that “even though they were .the enemy, once they were dead you could no longer hate them. You could not help but remember they were or had been someone’s son, husband, father, brother.” That’s what this book is about. How the war is for regular people like nurses, soldiers and sailors. That’s why you should read this book. So you can see how Americans coped with war. I feel like a walking version of Voices of War I am involved in the Stories of Service Veterans History Project. I am a youth producer. I videotape interviews of veterans for the Library of Congress. Then the veterans’ interviews will be preserved for future generations. These interviews will give information for speech writers, college students and book writers. Each veteran that I interview becomes part of me. I am hearing firsthand accounts of what happened to these men and women. Every one of them has a great story and lesson to pass on. One thing I hear the veterans say is that they want peace. These people know what war is and they want peace in the world. At DePortola Middle School, where I am a seventh-grader, war is not something students think about, but this book would be a very good book to have. It can be used to write history essays and learn about how soldiers and sailors lived and felt then and how they think about the wars now, which is thirty or forty or sixty years later. In history we learn about the generals and presidents and the famous battles. This book tells the real story of the people who fought the wars that became history. Celia Arguilez Smith,12San Diego, California
