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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

May/June 2004


By

Tripod

Every year at our cottage, we feed corn to the deer. All of the deer look pretty much the same. They all have brown fur that turns gray in the fall, a bright white tail—and four legs. Then Tripod came along. We’d heard rumors about a three-legged deer near the cottage, but it was still a surprise to see her. We were looking out the window when a deer wandered into the yard. “She’s walking funny,” Mom thought out loud. Then we saw the reason for the limp: the deer was missing her front right leg! “I feel kind of bad for her.” We all nodded and kept watching the new deer. Mom got a pair of binoculars for a closer look. “Look at the leg,” she said, handing the binoculars to me. I looked. Tripod wasn’t truly missing a leg. She had a small, deformed leg that was only a few inches long—not even a quarter of the length of her other legs. It showed she had been like this since birth, but her tiny leg would never do her any good in the wild. “She’s like a tripod—only three legs,” said Dad. We laughed, but it was a good name, and it stuck. From then on, the deer’s name was Tripod. When we first saw Tripod, it was almost the end of summer. That is always a sad time. We have to close up the cottage, take the dock out of the lake, and trade sun and fun for cold and snow. Winter isn’t easy for the animals, either. Chipmunks and squirrels hibernate in their cozy nests under trees and most birds fly south to warmer temperatures, but deer are left to struggle through the winter. It’s survival of the fittest for the deer, and we were worried about Tripod. With only three legs, she had an obvious disadvantage when it came to survival. She was older this year and had two babies with her That night, though, our worry about Tripod living through the winter disappeared. We were just about to go to bed when we saw a commotion out the front window. There were at least six deer crowded around the bucket, and none of them were very interested in sharing the corn. Tripod was right in the middle of the fight. She had been there first, it seemed, and she didn’t intend to give up her spot in line just because of a missing leg. A bigger deer pushed in front of Tripod and she stumbled to the side. “Poor Tripod,” we said, still thinking about winter. There was no way she could last very long with her leg. But Tripod proved us wrong. She reared up on her hind legs and kicked her one good leg at the bigger deer to scare him. He jumped out of the way, and the rest of the deer followed. They didn’t like the idea of a hoof in their face any more than the first deer. We looked at each other in amazement. Tripod might have had a disadvantage, but she was tough. Suddenly we didn’t have any doubts that Tripod could survive the winter. In fact, she could probably last longer than any of the other deer. She was used to working extra hard just to live. Next summer, we found that we were right. As soon as we put out new corn, Tripod came by. She was older this year and had two babies with her. They were cute little deer with white speckles, and we were sure that they had one of the best mothers a deer could have. After seeing the way she had defended her spot in line at the corn bucket, we knew that she would guard her babies with even more determination. Every year after that, Tripod showed up for corn. We came to expect her. Of course we liked all the deer, but Tripod was special. We considered her our deer. When a deer came up to the corn bucket, we’d ask, “Is it Tripod?” We were always watching out for her. This year was the sixth year since we saw Tripod. It was the first year that Tripod didn’t come. At first we made excuses, but it soon became clear that something was wrong. The average life span of a white-tail deer in the wild is nine years, so Tripod had been getting old. And the first time we saw her, she was already one or two years old, so by this time she would be seven or eight years old. That’s pretty good for a deer, especially one with three legs. Tripod hasn’t come by since. But every once in a while, someone will see a deer dart across the road. Even though they only had a quick glance, some people were certain that the deer they saw had only three legs. I’ve never seen another three-legged deer, but that doesn’t mean that she’s not out there. Maybe she is the last daughter of Tripod, continuing the legacy I don’t know. But whether or not there is a Tripod, Jr., in our woods, we’ll always remember Tripod. Caitlin Peterson, 13Appleton, Wisconsin Melissa Moucka, 13Hinsdale, Illinois


By

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


By

The Lone Wolf

Alexis Jamison looked thoughtfully at the young gray wolf anxiously pacing the enclosure. “You’ve got green eyes. That’s odd. Did you know that most gray wolves have gold eyes, or yellow even?” The wolf whined fearfully, a pup’s apprehensive sound, and Alex looked helplessly at it. “I can’t do anything yet,” she continued bitterly. “You’re going to be released, don’t you know that? What’s your name, anyway?” She looked at the piece of paper tacked lopsidedly to the fence, her father’s practically illegible handwriting spelling out the words: Lupus. Gray wolf. Approximately two years old. “Lupus, is that your name then?” Alex said interestedly. “Good name for a gray wolf.” Lupus whined again. “Oh, Lupus,” she murmured, her voice breaking. She jumped to her feet, put a hand against the fence briefly, then tore herself away and strode toward her house, trying hard to keep from turning back to Lupus. “Lupus, is that your name then? Good name for a gray wolf” The cool Alaskan air bit at Alex as she walked across the field of dying grass. She was used to wolves; there were plenty here at the gray wolf release center her father had begun four years ago. She had come here every summer since her parents split up when she was six. Alex had learned everything there was to know about endangered gray wolves from her father, and was already able to help him with his work. She didn’t usually let herself get attached to any of the wolves, knowing they were eventually going to be released and she’d never see them again, but she was curiously interested in Lupus. *          *          * Back at the enclosure, Lupus lay down wearily at nightfall after a day’s worth of restless pacing. He was a lone wolf, and would probably never start a pack of his own again. Before a yearling had challenged him, he’d been the alpha male of his pack, but the yearling had won the fight and now Lupus was a social outcast, hunting and living alone. He howled mournfully. Today, however, Lupus had finally become interested in a human when the young girl had spoken to him. He didn’t know her language, but he had understood her tone. She sounded as though she hadn’t wanted to go from him. No human had ever spoken like that to him; they had used falsely calm, sweet voices instead, as if he were a shy little cub that needed protection. This human had talked to him like the tough, former alpha he was. He somehow sensed that this girl was like him, alone and perhaps afraid. His head rested on his forepaws, and his green eyes closed gently. *          *          * Alex woke early the next morning. It was pleasantly silent in the house, and she lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about how lucky she was that it was summer vacation, when she didn’t have to go to school and endure the insults and jeers from Kara and her group. Her former friends. Some friends they were, to ditch her the moment she’d shown signs of not being “cool” anymore. One particular memory stuck out with uncomfortable clarity in her mind . . . It had all started on a warm day in November, when a new girl, Lori, had joined Alex’s class at school. Alex and her best friend, Kara, befriended Lori, and at first, everyone seemed happy. Lori hung out with Kara and Alex and their whole group of friends. But little by little, Alex began to notice changes. Kara and Lori became closer and began doing things without including Alex. Kara never called or e-mailed Alex anymore. One day, Alex overheard Kara and Lori talking. “Why should we hang out with her? All she ever talks about are her parents being divorced and how she’s going to go to Alaska to see her dad and her precious wolves,” Kara was saying to Lori. Alex knew they were talking about her. She was stunned. She had thought they were friends. Alex swung herself out of bed, fiercely driving back the memories that made a burning pain erupt somewhere around her throat. “Forget,” she commanded herself sternly. But she knew that would be impossible, to forget everything. She had a sudden, deep desire to see Lupus. Alex had felt so drawn to him yesterday. Seeing him alone in his enclosure, while all the other wolves were with their mates or in packs, had reminded Alex of her own loneliness. After a quick shower, Alex got dressed in a dark flannel shirt, faded jeans, and brown ankle boots—it was cold at the wolf release center where she was staying, even in summer. Her father would most likely already be outside, studying the big gray wolf, Gregoryi, and his mate, Baileyi. Alex shoved an energy bar into her jeans pocket and sprinted to Lupus’s enclosure. She sat down firmly on the dirt sprinkled with dying grass a short distance from his pen and rapped gently on the chain-link fence with the heel of her hand. *          *          * Lupus woke with a start at the rattling noise. Clumsy prey? He hadn’t hunted anything since that young man with the overlong hair had found him, lying sick amongst the dark trees, and brought him to this place. Little did he know the young man was Alex’s father. His eyes opened hopefully and he instinctively half-rose at a second jangle, but when he saw it was only Alex, he lay down sadly once again. Alex warily put a finger through the chain-link fence, and he lunged fiercely for it. She leapt backward, scolding him. “Don’t bite me, I’m your friend,” she said indignantly. “I won’t hurt you.” Lupus shuffled backward to the farthest corner of his pen, barking warningly. Alex grinned shyly. “I know you’re scared. That leap at me was all show, wasn’t it? You’re trying to be a great, frightening wolf, to scare me off.”