Your mother is calling you. It is time to go to bed. The night is calling out its cry of dark. “Come, come,” she calls to you. Again you do not answer. The clock strikes nine. The cat is rubbing at your ankles. You are silent. Your mother calls you again and again, But you still do not go. The peepers are singing, And the birds are calling the sound of night. The moon is already out and shining on the houses. You run into the yard. Owls start to hoot. A frog jumps out of the stream Breaking the stillness of the night. The dog barks in his kennel. The night is answering. You still do not go inside. Your mother calls one last time, And you finally go in to bed. Elizabeth Sughrue, 7Grasonville, Maryland
July/August 2000
Edward’s Treasure
It was only a quick walk to Murphy’s Woods from Anjeli’s backyard where Heather and Anjeli had been enjoying the hot July day, so they soon reached the edge of the woods. Instinctively, Heather grabbed her friend’s hand as they stepped onto the dirt path that led through the woods. It was considerably cooler under the shade of the tall oaks. The two girls kicked through the clumps of dark, damp leaves while chattering to each other. Soon, Heather forgot her first fears and joined Anjeli in skipping in between the trees and turning over the many rocks that lined their path. “Anj, I bet I can do fifteen cartwheels in a row!” “Let me see you try, girl!” Heather proceeded to try, but on the seventh, she slammed hard into the trunk of two oaks that had grown together. “Ow!” “You OK, Heather?” asked her friend, hurrying to her side. Heather pulled herself up on a branch of the tree mass. But before she could even dust the leaves off her shorts, Anjeli pushed her aside. “Hey!” said Heather indignantly, from the ground. “Oh my God…” “What, Anj?” “Heather, come here, quick! I found something!” “Heather, come here, quick! I found something!”` Heather scrambled to her feet. Slowly, Anjeli reached down into a tiny crevice under the tree and pulled out a package about the same size and shape as a book. It was wrapped in what looked like an old, yellowed newspaper. “Oh my God, Anj, what should we do?” asked Heather with a note of panic in her already-trembling voice. “I’m gonna open it.” “Be careful, Anjeli, it might be a bomb or something!” Anjeli scoffed, reached into her pocket for her Swiss Army knife and started to slit the ends of the package where they seemed to be waxed together. Heather couldn’t stand the suspense. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. But before she had even reached four, Anjeli’s deft fingers had the package open, and the treasure lay in her hands. From the cease of paper crackling, Heather knew that the secret was unveiled. She slowly opened her eyes and read the cover of the blue book with gold trim: A STAMP COLLECTION FOR YOUNG BOYS There was a long silence, a very long silence. Finally Anjeli spoke. “Stamp collecting?” Heather tried a bright smile. “It’s not so bad. My cousin used to collect stamps, and they were really . . .” she swallowed hard, and finished, “. . . valuable.” Anjeli almost dropped the book in excitement and hurry to look inside. And lo and behold, there was page after page of yellowed paper, covered in neatly placed stamps. Anjeli read some of them aloud. “U.S., eight cents. England, five pence. Mexico, ooh, Heather, look at this beautiful flower!” The girls paged through the book. Each stamp had its own special square that was exactly the size of the stamp. Underneath each stamp were two lines where the country and cost were neatly penned. “I wonder who owned this,” mused Heather. She flipped to the inside front cover, where, in the same painstakingly tidy cursive, was written: Edward Williamson, 1943 “We’ve got to try and find him, no matter how valuable these are.” “It doesn’t say where he lived or anything.” “Well, he must have lived close to these woods, if he hid it under this tree. I wonder why he had to leave it here,” said Anjeli, almost to herself. They sat down under the cooling shade of the oak, each quietly running down the list of possibilities. Maybe he was running from the police and had time to bring only one thing with him, thought Heather, and he had to leave it behind when he knew they were about to catch him. At the same time, Anjeli thought, Maybe he knew a thief was after it because it was so valuable. Maybe he was planning to come back for it one day, but something happened so he couldn’t . . . “Heather!” “What?” “Remember last year, during that elective ‘How to Use the Library,’ when we had to search that guy who used to live in Brevitown in 1976 on the computer that keeps all the records at the library? I’ll bet that will work with Eddie here if we can get the librarian to let us use that computer!” Heather gasped. “We’ve got to get to the library!” Heather and Anjeli stopped their bikes in front of Brevitown Library. The two girls dashed inside, with Anjeli carrying the book in one hand. Left, then right to the children’s department. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Heather panted, “we need your help.” “Of course,” said the librarian, looking worried. “Um, it’s not an emergency or anything, but we found this book”—Anjeli held it up—”in a tree in Murphy Woods. We were wondering if you had any information on Edward Williamson’s family. They lived in Brevitown around 1943.” The librarian looked much less worried. “Of course, dear. Let me check our records for 1943.” She got up (her name tag read Judy) and moved toward the room behind her desk. The girls eagerly followed her. Sitting down at a computer, Judy said, “This is where we keep all our records for past years. They date back ever since the library was built in 1889.” She typed in 1943, then Williamson. What appeared looked like this: WILLIAMSON, Lloyd His wife Muriel His daughter Mary His son Michael His son Edward Moved in 1941. Moved out 1943. Edward and his wife Alicia moved back 1995 and reside at 1284 Copper Street. “Thanks so much gotta go have a nice day!” said Heather and Anjeli in one breath, grabbing the book and dashing back out the way they had come. They jumped back on their bikes and raced through town till they came to the turnoff for Copper Street. “1134 . . . 1168. . . 1192. . . 1258. . . 1284!” the two chanted
The Board
My Tae Kwon Do instructor stood in front of me, the board held tightly in his hands. “Just tell me when you’re ready,” he said. I had to break it. That thought was ringing around inside my head, inside my stomach. Break it. BREAK IT! You have to break it. I stepped back for a practice kick. I got in a good stance, clenched my fists, and then I spun around backwards, doing a complete turn, and brought my heel up lightly on the edge of the board. Just to make sure that I was lined up, I practiced again. The old, thin brown carpet was rough on my bare feet as I pivoted. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling filled the room with light. Everything was silent, waiting for me. My martial arts classmates sat Indian-style in a row on the floor to my left. In the back of the room, my mom and dad sat in chairs. I could feel everyone’s gaze boring through me like so many tiny lasers. I had never broken a board before, although I had tried several times. Even a boy in my Tae Kwon Do class who was two years younger than me (and a lower rank) had broken one, and he always made sure that I knew it. My loose white uniform made snapping sounds as I lined myself up once more, but the baggy pants and jacket didn’t keep me from sweating. I felt as hot as if I were wearing sweatpants and a turtleneck. I paused to pull the knot in my deep-blue belt tight. “Through the board, through the board,” I chanted to myself “OK,” I whispered, and with one last deep breath, I swirled around, the room blurring before my eyes. Then I kicked my heel against the hard wood. I stepped back. The board was still in one piece. “You stopped,” my instructor said, smiling. “You have to go through the board. Try it again.” I was getting sick of people telling me to “go through the board.” As if I wasn’t trying! “Through the board, through the board,” I chanted to myself. I took another practice try and then flew around again, my long, blond braid swishing around behind me. But again, I couldn’t break the board. I hadn’t even cracked it! I felt tears of frustration welling up in my eyes and tipped my head back to get rid of them. I wouldn’t disappoint everyone by being a quitter. I wouldn’t disappoint myself. “Almost,” my instructor told me. “You still stopped. Try it just one more time.” One more chance. That was all I got. Suddenly, I remembered my instructor sticking his tongue out once and waving his hands by his ears. “That’s what the board’s doing,” he had said to me. I closed my eyes and pictured myself cracking the board in half. “I’ll show you, Mr. Board. I’ll do it,” I whispered, and the words “I’ll do it” echoed inside me. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” “OK,” I said quietly. I spun around. My foot snapped out and collided with the board in just the right spot. I heard a distant CRACK! and then my foot fell through the board and my instructor was holding up the two jagged pieces and grinning. “Knowing that you can,” he said. “That’s all there is to it.” Ann Pedtke, 12East Lansing, Michigan Sarah Dennis, 12Nashville, Tennessee
