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Cricket - May 2018

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the realm of imagination
the realm of imagination
N u m be r 8
COV E R A N D B O R D E R
by Helen Cann
“Mexican Hummingbirds and Flowers”
gouache, watercolor, ink, colored pencil, and collage
Is it time to renew?
shop.cricketmedia.com
1-800-821-0115
CRICKET ADVISORY BOARD
Marianne Carus Founder
and Editor-in-Chief from 1972–2012
Kieran Egan Professor of Education,
Simon Fraser University, Vancouver
Betsy Hearne Professor, University of
Illinois, Champaign; Critic, Author
Sybille Jagusch Children’s Literature Specialist
Linda Sue Park Author
Katherine Paterson Author
Barbara Scharioth Former Director of the
International Youth Library in Munich, Germany
Anita Silvey Author, Critic
Sandra Stotsky Professor of Education Reform,
University of Arkansas, Fayetteville
Roger Sutton Editor-in-Chief of
The Horn Book Magazine, Critic
Ann Thwaite Author, Critic
Educational Press Association of America
Golden Lamp Award
Distinguished Achievement Award
Academics Choice
Smart Media Award
International Reading Association
Paul A. Witty Short Story Award
1988–1993, 1997, 2003, 2004, 2006,
2007, 2009, 2011–2015
8
8
I’m an author and illustrator specializing in children’s
books, mapping, drawing, and lettering. My handpainted illustrations have appeared in over thirty
books and have been used for TV and film props,
too. I’ve won several awards and exhibited around
the world.
When I’m not illustrating I like to have adventures!
I once learned how to be a blacksmith. I performed in
a theater show based in London’s West End. I drank
reindeer blood with Sami reindeer herders in Sweden,
drove a dog sled in the snowy depths of the Arctic
circle, and sailed as crew across the North Atlantic seas
tracking whales.
Home is where my heart is though, and I love to
work in my cozy studio above a milkshake shop in
the seaside city of Brighton, United Kingdom. There
are lots of noisy seagulls, but I have never seen a
hummingbird here.
CRICKET STAFF
Lonnie Plecha Editor
Anna Lender Associate Art Director
Patrick Murray Designer
Carolyn Digby Conahan Staff Artist
Deborah Vetter Senior Contributing Editor
Julie Peterson Copyeditor
Maria Hlohowskyj Assistant Editor
Adrienne Matzen Permissions Specialist
8
Vol u m e 45
SELF-PORTRAIT
M ay/ J u ne 20 1 8
National Magazine Award
finalist in the category of
General Excellence
Society of Midland Authors
Award for Excellence in
Children’s Literature
Parents’ Choice
Gold Award
May/June 2018, Volume 45, Number 8, © 2018, Carus Publishing dba Cricket Media.
All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form.
View submission guidelines and submit manuscripts online at cricketmag.submittable.com. Please note that we no longer accept unsolicited hard copy submissions. Not
responsible for unsolicited manuscripts or other material. All letters and competition
entries are assumed for publication and become the property of Cricket Media. For
information regarding our privacy policy and compliance with the Children’s Online
Privacy Protection Act, please visit our website at cricketmedia.com/privacy or write to
us at Cricket/COPPA, 70 East Lake Street, Suite 800, Chicago, IL 60601.
continued on page 47
5
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23
28
31
32
38
39
2
4
27
45
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48
The Orb by Rebecca Birch
School Recital by Christina Sng
Two Amazing Tales of Memory by Valerie Rodgers
The Pearl Inside by Julie Angeli
Peacock on Parade by Rachel Delaney Craft
The Bird’s Message by Pamela Love
Jewel in the Air by Kris MacLeod
Build a Hummingbird Feeder by Jim Arnosky
Nodi and the Roman by Nell Wright
Favorite First Sentences from Cricket Readers
King of Beggars by Joan Issari
Letterbox
Cricket Country by Carolyn Digby Conahan
Ugly Bird’s Crossbird Puzzle
Cricket League
Cricket and Ladybug by Carolyn Digby Conahan
Old Cricket Says
cover and contents page art © 2018 by Helen Cann
THIS ONE’S
FOR YOU.
Dear Cricket magazine,
I totally love you magazine (even if this is the
billionth time you’ve heard this)! I like to read, write,
and draw, so Cricket is perfect for me. I also like to
play video games, so I think Cricket should have an
article on classic games. I think it’s awesome that
Cricket is ad-free and people in their twenties and
thirties still read it from their childhood.
My fourth grade teacher knew I loved Cricket
so she gave me a bunch of old Crickets from as
long ago as 1999! I find it funny that I’m reading
magazines older than me. I noticed that in some
of them, the comics are under the Letterbox and
throughout the mag. And there was so little!
(So sad!) Sometimes I think page 4 isn’t enough
dedicated space for comics.
Not many Whovians write into the Letterbox
anymore. I find that sad. I still think your mag is
the best thing ever.
Avery, age 10
St. James, New York
p.s . All residents of Cricket Country: Keep on being
awesome! And Ugly, you should consider
becoming vegan to keep the buggies (and
mermaids and rodents) safe.
Dear Cricket,
I love your magazine. I got a subscription for
Christmas. I also got my first copy. I think that you
should keep up the good work and keep adding
more stories.
We got a new kitten who is pure black with
three white spots under her chin and one on her
stomach. She is very feisty but is super cute.
Willow Jacobson, age 8
Ashland, Oregon
Dear Pussywillow,
You are my favorite! Do you have
a favorite book? I love to read but
don’t think I have a favorite book.
They are all so good!
I am homeschooled and have
two brothers and a dog named Kenosis and I love Star Wars! When I grow
up I want to be an author. Thank you for
this amazing magazine!
Eliana, age 10
Vale, North Carolina
and promises to text. And everyone
recycles stacks of homework, throws
their Latin binders in the air, eats
too many of those too-sweet,
powdery sugar cookies, and says
goodbye.
Time goes on anyway. Life
doesn’t care about how sad it is
to see all the wrapping paper and
stickers ripped off lockers to reveal faded
blue paint, to wave goodbye to the ivy-covered
fences, plastic navy benches, empty cafeteria, and
turquoise awning of the theater.
Three more months until eighth grade.
Abigail S., age 12
Nose in a Book
Down to Earth, Chatterbox
SADNESS AND
HAPPINESS! ENDINGS
AND BEGINNINGS!
OHHH, SIGH.
Dear Eliana,
Pussywillow loves to listen to stories! Two of
her favorites are The Very Hungry Caterpillar and
Are You My Mother?
Love,
Ladybug
Dear Cricket magazine,
I’ve only received my third issue of Cricket, but
I love it! I don’t like reading that much, but Cricket
makes me want to read it right away. I have a BIG
family. I have seven sisters and three brothers plus
my mom and dad and my two dogs, Lol and Maizy,
and my cat PJ. There are Olivia, Hannah, Helena,
Elijah, Celia, Ava, Noah, Jonah, Clara (me), Arabella, and Lilah. None of us are adopted or twins.
My house gets pretty wild around Thanksgiving
and Christmas.
Clara H., age 11
Virginia
Today was the last day of seventh grade. It was
a pretty sad day. The year had its ups and downs.
It went by so fast. We always do a countdown to
Dear Cricket,
the final bell, and so many people shouted out
I was surprised when I first got Cricket. My
the numbers through tears because endings are
grandma started sending us Cricket. The
always hard, even when they’re a beginning
issues were from 1984, 1989, and 1990
to something else. My friend screams,
WE SEE ALL AGES
because they were originally my mum’s.
“We survived!” and then starts
IN CRICKET
I bet you have a lot of bugs in
sobbing on my shoulder. And the
COUNTRY!
Cricket Country. Maybe you’d like to
boy who can never seem to shut
have Ralph there. Ralph is a character
up has his face in his hands and is
from Runaway Ralph, Ralph S. Mouse,
silently pretending he’s not crying.
and The Mouse and the Motorcycle.
Countless multicolored SharpPippo Turner, age 6
ies flash across yearbook pages
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina
with wishes of happy summers
2
MEWY YAY!
I am really nervous. I am going to high school
in a few months and I don’t know if I am going
to fit in. Nobody I know is going with me, and I
am a bit worried about my grades. I currently go
to a Montessori school. Montessori is a teaching
method developed for sparking independence in kids. We stay in one
AS AN
classroom with one teacher, who
INDEPENDENT
has a broad knowledge in all
LEARNER, YOU’RE
WELL PREPARED TO
areas. We have maybe three
LEARN ANYWHERE,
or four half-hour lessons in a
AND TO LEARN
day. The rest of the time we
A NEW ROUTINE,
learn independently without
TOO!
the teacher from materials
around the room. But my high
school is just normal. I have
never been to a normal school
before. Does anyone have any
tips for me?
Dragonfruit, age 11
Australia
Chirp at Cricket, Chatterbox
I have some tips, Dragonfruit! 1. Have good
time management. 2. Keep a planner handy so
you can map out what assignments are due on
what days. 3. Ask for help if you need it. Ask your
friends! Ask your teachers!
Lucy B., age 13
Emmilvien
Chirp at Cricket
CHIRPS FROM CRICKET’S
Life is pretty good for me. My
and stay are all free. We look forward to
middle school is awesome. During
seeing you there.
LET
TERBOX AND CHAT TERBOX
HOORAY FOR
break I was literally counting down
Hotel Manager
COOKIES!
The summer reading program at my library
the days until school started. I’ve
Woodlock Mansion
started, and one of the squares is to read a book
done a lot of traveling lately. I was in
Pudding’s Place, Chatterbox
that was chosen by someone else, so do you have
Alaska with my school last summer
any suggestions for that?
and then Oregon and California with
For the birthdays of my brother and
Crookshanks, 2nd year
my family. This summer I might go to
me, instead of just giving us presents
Hogsmeade
Japan and Belgium. I’m really excited.
straight up, the rest of the family will hide
Blab About Books, Chatterbox
Guess what paid for my entire Alaska
them around the house. My mom started
trip. COOKIES! I made and sold cookies to
doing it when we were younger kids, but we
Crookshanks, how about a book that begins
raise three thousand dollars. It was really fun!
kept doing it. This year, my brother and counselor
with one of the Favorite First Sentences on page
Kate-the-Great
hid them for me at music camp. A few months later
38? Or look at suggestions from other readers
Hello there! Down to Earth
when my brother was at college, we sent some
at Blab About Books on Chatterbox or Cricket
presents to his roommate to hide! Usually it’s in
Readers Recommend in Old Cricket’s Library on
I’m thinking about getting a parakeet or two.
pretty obvious spots, but one time I put one on my
cricketmagkids.com.
Should I get one or two? I want one so that it
brother’s bookshelf that he didn’t notice for weeks!
Old Cricket
would be easier to train, but with two I wouldn’t
Shoshannah
have to worry about it being lonely.
Family Traditions! Down to Earth
I will make a pirate role play! There will be two
Moonfrost
sides in this conflict betwixt the British colonists
Mars
I was thinking, we have CBversaries, but we
and the Pirates. This role play will be based in the
Down to Earth
don’t have an official CB holiday. My idea was: CBVirgin Islands.
day, general traditions, cake, pie, pie war, parties,
Cron
We had some awesome parakeets when I was
AE chat threads, etc. Suggestions?
The Island of St. John
younger. We had two. They were both boys. I think
Catsclaw, age 11
Pirate RP! Inkwell, Chatterbox
two is the best bet if your parents are good with a
The Library
bit extra cost. They keep each other busy and just
New CB holiday? Chirp at Cricket
I have a strong fear of all leggy things, espe“talk” back and forth. Quite worth it!
cially spiders. I am terrified of spiders. And I have
When we got the parakeets I was probably
I was just thinking about this the other day. The
claustrophobia. Really bad claustrophobia.
around seven and my sister maybe four or three.
first threads are dated June 18, 2008. It will be ten
Leafpool, age Eterna
We got to choose the names so, being very young,
years old in 2018. Maybe that should be the day.
Hidden in the Forest
we shouted “Birdy!” “Tweety!” Therefore their
elementgirl18917
Reintroduce Yourself, Down to Earth
names became Birdy and Tweety. Weren’t we just
New CB holiday? Chirp at Cricket
amazingly creative?
Welcome to Bardswood Theatre
Ashlee G., age 16
Great idea, Catsclaw! I really like the idea
Company, a well-known theatrical guild
The Future
of celebrating the CB’s anniversary. Maybe
WOOO!
inside one of the world’s biggest RenaisDown to Earth
on the 18th or the week of the 18th
CELEBRATE.
sance faires, Castlefest! In this role
we could set up different celebratory
play, we are actors trying to put on a
You’re inside, sitting on the couch, trying to
threads for the celebration: a CBversary
fantasy play called Lyre’s Heart.
find something to do—anything. Five days into
SI, a CB history thread, maybe some
Brookeira
summer vacation, and you remember why you
kind of large RP or solo write, a thread
Theatre Troupe Role Play!
started being a little bit excited about school in
for the arts represented on Cricket, etc.
Inkwell
the first place. You sigh. You turn on the television.
Micearenice
A commercial comes on saying something about
New CB holiday? Chirp at Cricket
I sing in the San Francisco Girls Chorus,
Popsicles.
play the harp, love to read and write, and
Yes, you think, a Popsicle would be nice. You
Hey, all!
enjoy singing Glee and pretty much all songs from
walk over to the freezer, looking for a Popsicle. You
I’m Cockleburr! I’ve been on the Chatterbox
take out the box. Something catches your eye. In
for a year and I love it! I enjoy writing, drawing, and musicals.
SopranoTwo
tiny print under the ingredients list reads:
reading. My obsessions include Harry Potter, FanChirp at Cricket
Dearest Chatterboxer, You are invited to Woodtastic Beasts, Percy Jackson, and Sherlock. I love
lock Mansion and Summer Excursion Hotel. Our
Sherlock. The books are excellent, and the show
mansion has seven floors, several pools, lovely outis amazing. I’m a Hufflepuff, and my Camp Halfside balconies, one movie theater, and
Blood cabin is Poseidon. I get Cricket magazine
Send letters to Cricket’s Letterbox,
and have gotten it for six years. I have kept every
SOUNDS INVITING! an arcade, along with seven acres
P.O. Box 300, Peru, IL 61354, or email us at
of
land
and
a
stretch
of
river.
Cricket
magazine
I
ever
received.
I WANT TO VISIT,
cricket@cricketmedia.com. Letters may be edited
AEs and Captchas are allowed.
I have four pet chickens and I want to be a
TOO.
for length.
Please bring them and all
marine biologist or an artist. Or both! Or a medical
your things to your mailbox.
illustrator so I can combine the two, science and
V i s i t t h e C h a t t e r b ox a t :
If you don’t have a mailbox, a
art. I love being outside. I do gymnastics sixteen
c r ic ke t ma g k i d s .com /c hat te r b ox
toaster will do. (Please make
hours a week.
sure there are no letters or
Cockleburr
toast inside.) Transportation
Reintroduce Yourself, Down to Earth
3
MEET
PONDER-O, A
WHAT MACHINE FOR
ARE YOU COMPLICATED
WORKING PROBLEMS.
ON?
(SIGH) WE
WEREN’T
QUITE
READY
FOR YOU,
YET...
YOUR
PERSONALITY
WILL TRY TO
TAKE OVER!
LIKE A
CALCULATOR?
NOT AT ALL!
IT’S TO RESOLVE
COMPLEX WORLD
PROBLEMS WITH
MANY POINTS
OF VIEW.
AND WHY NOT?
YOU’LL NEED A
GOOD, STRONG
PERSONALITY TO
GET THINGS IN
ORDER!
SO
LOTS OF
YOU’RE
PERSONALITIES!
GIVING WE’RE COLLECTING
IT LOTS
ALL DIFFERENT
OF EYES?
TYPES.
OH, HO!
ARTIFICIAL
INTELLIGENCE?
ALL NATURAL, IF YOU PLEASE!
PERSONALITIES WE KNOW: LOGICAL
TATER, RADICAL ME, SLOW-BUTSTEADY SLUGGO, KIND MUFFIN! STEP
INTO THE CHAMBER FOR SCANNING,
AND PONDER-O WILL BE AS BRAVE
AND TRUE AS YOU, CRICKET.
DON’T
FORGET BOLD,
BEAUTIFUL,
BRILLIANT ME!
NOOOO,
GET BACK,
UGLY! WE
CAN’T HAVE
TWO IN THE
MACHINE AT
ONCE!
UH-OH!
GOOD LUCK,
PONDER-O.
READY,
LADYBUG? HERE
GOES...(CLICK)
WHOA! LOOK
OUT!
MEW!
YIKES! SCARY
THOUGHT–DID WE JUST
SCAN UGLY INTO THE
MACHINE?
WHOA!
EVERYBUGGY OK? ALL
RIGHT, PONDER-O?
WITH LADYBUG?
(SHIVER!!)
LADYBUG!
LADYBUG?
MEWY OK?
OOK! ACK!
(GROAN) UGGEE
HONGREE! SNARF!
GOBBLE.
PARDON?
WHOA!
SHE’S
TALKING
LIKE UGLY!
4
EEK! BUT WHERE’S POOR LADYBUG
GONE?
AH HA! SOUNDS LIKE
UGLY GOT SCANNED INTO
LADYBUG, NOT PONDER-O!
MAYBE, BUT I
DON’T LIKE THE
WAY SHE’S...HE’S...
IT’S LOOKING AT US.
I’LL DISTRACT
HER WITH THIS
COMPOST
BUCKET! WHO
WANTS A
NICE ROTTEN
BANANA PEEL?
YUMMY FISH
BONES? MOLDY
CHEESE?
BEFORE WE FIX THE
WORLD, LET’S MAKE
A BIG BATCH OF
COOKIES! DON’T JUST
STAND THERE. STEP
ON IT, OR I’LL
STEP ON YOU!
WHOA, DID IT WORK?
WAS I SCANNED? I FEEL
WEIRD...AND YOU LOOK
REALLY SMALL.IHA HA!
(RUMBLE) WOW! WHY AM
I SO HUNGRY?
EEK!
UM, PONDER-O?
WE HAVE A
PROBLEM...
Orb
The
by Rebecca Birch
MARGIE CALL AHAN STOOD before
the Orb, her mother on one side, First Minister
Chao on the other. The metal walls gleamed like
ice, and everything smelled vaguely of sanitizer.
She’d been inside the shiny, silver room before, on
a tour with her class when schooling had only just
begun, but this was different. This was real.
“Mom, do I really have to go?”
The first minister pressed her tortoiseshell glasses
up her nose with one long finger and glanced at
Margie’s mom before looking back down and giving
Margie a tight smile. “Everyone goes, Margie. You
know that. I did when I was your age. So did your
mother.”
Illustrated by Mar tin Wickstrom
text © 2018 by Rebecca Birch, art © 2018 by Martin Wickstrom
5
Mom’s fingers—callused from years
of assembling standardized furnishings for
schools and childcare centers—trembled in
Margie’s grasp. “She knows.”
“There are others waiting their turn,” the
first minister said, her lips smiling but an
edge of impatience coloring her voice. Every
child who had turned twelve in the past
month would face the Orb that day.
Margie bit the inside of her cheek. Her
mom was scared, but trying to put on a brave
6
AN ORB IS A ROUND THINGY,
LIKE A BALL OR GLOBE.
front. She could manage at least as much.
“I’m ready.”
Her mother exhaled quietly, slipped her
hand out of Margie’s, and gave her shoulder a
gentle squeeze.
First Minister Chao pressed her palm
against a sensor on the Orb’s surface.
Rainbow light pulsed to life within, swirling behind the plex-glass door so that
purple, blue, and green slid like an oil slick
over the first minister’s shiny dark hair
BUT WHAT’S INSIDE?
COULD BE ANYTHING!
and glasses. A low hum shook the
floor.
Margie swallowed
convulsively.
“You remembered the
rules? You didn’t bring anything with you?”
Margie shook her head
and hoped nobody could
hear her heart pounding. She didn’t want to
answer the question out
loud, because it would be a
lie. The ceremonial jumpsuit they’d given her had no
pockets, but she’d tucked one
small item in the band of her
underwear: her father’s watch.
The one thing he’d left behind just
for her. He’d made it in his workshop with his own hands, with both
their names engraved on the underside. She
hadn’t taken it off since the day he’d died.
Not until that morning, when her mother
made her do it.
Margie had cried, even though at twelve
she was too old for tears, but her mother
had insisted, not leaving the changing room
until the watch lay like a dead thing on the
counter.
Her father always told Margie that he’d
help her be strong—all she had to do was
keep the watch with her always. When her
mother had stepped out to let her finish
changing in private, the almost inaudible
ticking proved too much of a temptation.
Margie had dried her tears and put on the
jumper, the watch tucked away where no one
would think to look. Her mother had checked
her wrist to be sure she hadn’t put it back on
again, and been satisfied.
One little watch couldn’t make a difference to the Orb, could it? It was powerful
enough to know a person’s destiny. Surely it
wouldn’t be swayed by such a small thing.
The first minister knelt down, meeting
her eye to eye. “This is the most important
day of your life, Margie. You’re going to learn
who you’re meant to be.” Her expression
hardened. “Now, you’ve heard that sometimes
people don’t come back out. Those are people
with evil in their hearts. People destined to
commit the worst of crimes. The Orb prevents those crimes from happening. But you’re
a good girl, right? So there’s nothing to be
afraid of.”
The weight of her lie pressed down
on Margie’s breastbone, making it hard to
breathe. Was she really a good girl? A good
girl wouldn’t break the rules. But the steady,
almost imperceptible tick-tick-tick against her
belly was the only thing making her brave
enough to keep from running.
She nodded and tried to smile.
First Minister Chao squeezed her hand,
then rose and touched a button on the Orb’s
side. The plex-glass door lifted.
The hum intensified, vibrating under
Margie’s bare feet. Dancing waves of color
washed through the door, turning her white
jumpsuit from orange to gold to green. An
earthy, damp scent wafted over her.
IMPERCEPTIBLE MEANS IMPOSSIBLE
TO PERCEIVE, UNDETECTABLE.
7
OPAQUE
MEANS
CLOUDY,
UNCLEAR, NOT
TRANSPARENT.
“Go on,” said the first minister.
Margie forced herself to take a step. Another. One more
step and she entered the Orb.
The ground was cold and gave way underfoot, as if she
were stepping on molded gelatin. She hesitated, but a
soft hiss warned her the door was closing, and she
took the last step that brought her fully within.
The door sealed with a thud and Margie spun
around to look back, but the plex-glass was
opaque from the inside. She could see nothing.
She pushed against the wall. “Mom!”
Her voice vanished quickly, consumed
by the Orb. Unlike the exterior with its
shiny metal walls, the interior of the
Orb felt almost like fabric. The rainbow colors pulsed to a loud heartbeat
thrum—da-dum, da-dum.
Margie pressed her palms against
her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. It
dimmed the sound enough that she could
turn her attention instead to the tick-ticktick of her father’s watch she sensed against
her skin. Focusing on the watch’s rhythm,
Margie cautiously opened her eyes.
The Orb was bigger on the inside than
it should have been, with rounded hallways,
which had not been visible on the outside,
branching off in all directions. The colors began
to coalesce, turning one pathway red, another blue,
and on through the spectrum.
Margie inched toward the yellow pathway. Ahead, she
heard the sound of a young woman’s laughter. Her own? Was
she supposed to follow it?
The blue pathway smelled of the sea. She’d visited it once
with her parents when her father was still alive. A good, happy
memory.
COALESCE MEANS TO COME OR
BLEND TOGETHER.
8
A shriek echoed down a crimson pathway, followed by
the sound of running feet. Margie flinched away.
And behind it all, the heartbeat thrum. Her own
heart stuttered, as if trying to match the pulse, but Margie
focused again on the watch. Her heart was her own. She
wouldn’t let it be overwritten.
More pathways branched from the original six,
colors melting into a multitude of hues, and from
each pathway, a different sound, a different feeling. Some called to her so loudly she nearly
followed without thinking, but the watch
anchored her in place, fighting the hypnotic
heartbeat.
How long did she have? Was there
time to think? What if she chose the path
for those who weren’t good girls?
Any path could be the wrong one,
and who was to say that any of them was
right? Her mother, for all her good work
in the assembly room, never seemed truly
happy. Not the way her father had been.
The laughter down the yellow pathway
was tempting, and so was the sea. But why
did she have to choose now? Why not wait
until she had a better idea of who she was?
Margie sank to her knees and closed her
eyes, concentrating only on the watch’s rhythm.
Slowly, everything else faded away. No more laughter. No more heartbeat. No more sea.
Only the tick-tick-tick and the rhythm of her own
breathing.
She hardly noticed when the plex-glass door slid open,
opening her eyes only when First Minister Chao touched
her shoulder. “Margie?”
The colors were gone, leaving the Orb a strangely bare
white. “Yes?”
9
SO THE ORB TELLS YOU WHAT
YOU’LL BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
The first minister gave her a real smile,
the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
“Your mother was right. There’s a lot of your
father in you.” She offered Margie her hand
and helped her to her feet.
“Is that a good thing or a bad
thing?”
She stepped out of the Orb
and her mother raced toward
her, gathering her into an
embrace. “Oh, baby girl,
that is the best thing. I’m
so proud of you.”
Margie blinked, her
cheek pressed against
her mother’s ribs. “I don’t
understand.”
“It means you’ll be your
own person, Margie,” the first minister
replied. “Now, if your mother doesn’t mind, I
need to take you for a short exit processing.”
Margie detached herself from her mother’s
arms and followed the first minister into a
small office just down the hall. When the
door closed, the first minister rested one
hand on the mahogany desk and turned her
deep black eyes on Margie. “What was it you
brought with you?”
“I—” Margie stammered. “I don’t
understand.”
“Yes, you do,” the first minister replied,
a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“The Orb couldn’t make the choice for you,
but nobody can resist the Orb without help.
Only the bravest break the rule. Like your
father, and like me.”
10
I DON’T KNOW IF I’D LIKE THAT,
UNLESS IT SAYS I’LL BE A BASEBALL
PLAYER!
Margie bit her lip and looked down at her
feet. “My father’s watch. Before he died, he
made me promise to have it with me always.”
“Your father was a good man. His innovations have helped shape the future. He’d have
been proud of you, Margie Callahan.
I am. The world is a better place
when we can make it for ourselves. You will have that
chance.”
“So I’m a good girl?”
“Better,” said the first
minister. “You’re a strong
girl. But you must never
tell anyone what you did.
Do you understand? Not
even your mother.”
Margie nodded, though she
wasn’t so sure. If her mother had been able
to choose her own path, would she be happier
today?
“The Orb is the glue that holds our society together. Everyone trusts its judgment. If
they were to begin to doubt it, can you imagine the chaos that would follow?”
Margie nodded again. “I understand, First
Minister.”
She would keep the secret, at least until
the time she could really understand, one way
or the other. The tick-tick-tick of her father’s
watch would count the hours, months, and
years. And when she was older, when she’d
learned what there was to know, then she
would decide.
Because she was her own person.
No one could tell her no.
S chool R ecital
by Christina sng
School recital
All I hear
The ticking of the clock
Illustrated by Grace Easton
text © 2018 by Christina Sng, art © 2018 by Grace Easton
11
Two AmAzing TAles of memory
by Valerie Rodgers
57463396874638586751 .
Read these numbers slowly, then close
your eyes and say them in order. Seems impossible, doesn’t it? Yet a man called Mr. S, born
with an extraordinary memory, was able to
remember lists four times this long. Even more
surprising, a young man born with an ordinary
memory taught himself to do the same. How
can anyone develop a memory this powerful?
To answer this question, let’s go back more
than eighty years to Russia, where a stranger
had just appeared, unannounced, at the laboratory of the famous psychologist Dr. Alexander
Luria. The man’s name was S. V. Shereshevskii,
and he wanted the doctor to test his memory.
Dr. Luria noted the man’s ordinary appearance
and somewhat puzzled expression. Little did
he realize that this would be one of the most
remarkable people he would meet in his long
career of studying the mind.
Mr. S, as we shall call him, explained
to the doctor that he worked as a reporter.
Illustrated by David Povilaitis
12
Every day he and the other reporters met with
their editor to hear their assignments. The
instructions were long and detailed, so everyone scribbled notes to help them remember.
Everyone, that is, but Mr. S. Seeing this day
after day, the irritated editor finally asked
him why he never took notes. Mr. S replied
that it wasn’t worth his effort because he
remembered everything. When the editor
seemed skeptical, Mr. S repeated, like a tape
recorder, every instruction the man had just
given. The editor was stunned and urged him
to visit Dr. Luria to have his memory tested.
Interestingly, this incident amazed Mr. S even
more than his editor. Never before had he
imagined that there was anything unusual
about his memory.
Dr. Luria gave Mr. S a simple test. He
slowly read to him a series of numbers, such
as 7 . . . 4 . . . 2 . . . 6 . . . 8 . . . , and so
on. Mr. S listened intently. When the doctor
had finished, Mr. S repeated every number
SKEPTICAL MEANS
DOUBTFUL, UNBELIEVING.
OHHHH,
REALLY?
SO–HOW MANY NUMBERS
CAN YOU REMEMBER?
ALL OF THEM–1, 2, 3,
4, 5...
back in perfect order. The doctor presented
thirty, fifty, and finally seventy-five numbers,
but each time Mr. S recalled all of them.
He remembered letters and words as well as
numbers and could even repeat the lists backward. In fact, sixteen years later Mr. S could
still remember these lists. Although Dr. Luria
tested Mr. S extensively over the next thirty
years, he never found a limit to the man’s
memory.
Why was Mr. S’s memory so powerful? One reason was that he used powerful
mnemonic strategies. The term mnemonic
(nih-MON-ik) means related to memory,
and it comes from Mnemosyne, the Greek
goddess of memory. Mnemonic strategies
are techniques that people use to aid their
memories. Among those that Mr. S used were
imagery and the method of loci, or location.
A good way to remember something is
to create a picture of it in the mind, called
an image. For example, Mr. S mentally pictured the word green as a green flowerpot and
red as a man in a red shirt. Even numbers
became images. Six was a man with a swollen
foot, seven a man twirling his mustache, and
eight a fat woman. For larger numbers Mr. S
combined images. Thus for eighty-seven he
pictured a man twirling his mustache next to
a fat woman.
Mr. S’s mental images often included
vivid details—sounds, colors, textures, and
even tastes. For example, he once described a
fence that he had seen as having a salty taste,
rough feel, and sharp sound. This detail made
Mr. S’s images extremely memorable, because
WHO WAS THAT GREEK
GODDESS OF MEMORY AGAIN?
the more vivid and detailed an image, the
better a person can remember it.
To remember items in order, Mr. S
used another mnemonic strategy called “the
method of loci,” attributed to the Greek poet
Simonides (556–468 BC). One evening after
Simonides had left a banquet early, the roof
collapsed, crushing the bodies of all the other
guests beyond recognition. When called in
to identify the victims, Simonides was able
to name everyone present by recalling where
each person had sat at the banquet table. This
taught him that people remember information
better when they relate it to a familiar location. Using this idea, he devised a mnemonic
strategy, the method of loci. It helped Greek
orators remember long speeches, Roman generals name the men under their command,
and medieval scholars memorize long religious texts.
How did Mr. S use this strategy to remember a list of words? First he turned each word
into an image. Then he pictured himself walking down a familiar street, placing each image
in a different spot along the way. To recall the
word list, he simply pictured himself strolling
back up the street, naming each item as he
passed it. This technique worked remarkably
well and had only an occasional glitch. Once
Mr. S needed to remember a list that included
the word egg. Walking down a familiar street
in his mind, he placed his image of an egg
against a white wall. Unfortunately, the white
egg blended so well with the white wall that
when he walked up the street in his mind
again, he failed to see it!
ANY TIPS FOR
REMEMBERING
A LONG
SPEECH?
YES–
KEEP IT
SHORT!
I FORGET...
13
Can an average person use mnemonic
strategies to develop a memory like Mr. S’s?
In the early 1980s, the scientist K. A. Ericsson
and his colleagues investigated this question.
They recruited S.F., a normal college student
with average intelligence. Once a day, three to
five times a week, they tested his memory
with number lists, much as Dr. Luria had
tested Mr. S, and recorded the results. Most
adults can, without practice, remember
between five and nine numbers immediately
after they hear or read them. When first
14
tested, S.F. remembered seven. But with practice his score steadily improved until, twenty
months and 230 hours later, he could recall
seventy-nine numbers. This is just as good as
Mr. S’s performance with Dr. Luria.
How did S.F. remember so many numbers? By using a mnemonic strategy that he
invented himself and practicing it a lot. S.F.
was a runner, so he converted the numbers
he wanted to remember into running times
in addition to other meaningful information,
like ages or significant dates. To recall the
number 34928921944, for example, he might
remember 3492 as 3 minutes 49.2 seconds,
892 as 89.2 years old, and 1944 as “near the
end of World War II.” This strategy worked
because we remember information more easily
when it has meaning for us.
Did this show that S.F.’s memory was now
as powerful as that of Mr. S? Unfortunately,
no. Unlike Mr. S, whose mnemonic strategies helped him remember everything, S.F.’s
strategy only worked for numbers. When the
researchers later tested him with letters, he
could recall only six of them.
On the surface, Mr. S’s memory may
seem tremendously useful. Imagine remembering the birth date, phone number, and
address of everyone you know. Yet this great
gift hid an even greater problem. The same
images that helped Mr. S remember information often prevented him from understanding
it. One example of this was his difficulty with
reading. When Mr. S read a paragraph in a
book, the words would form a series of images
in his mind. By recalling these images, he
could accurately repeat back the words he had
read. When asked to tell the story, however,
Mr. S was often in trouble. Again, he would
recall his images, but too often they had little
to do with the meaning of the writing. To tell
the story, Mr. S would describe these images,
but the resulting jumble of ideas made little
sense to his listeners. This often left him
confused and frustrated. Mr. S could handle
simple, straightforward information with
ease, but had difficulty with more complex or
changing information.
IT WOULD BE WEIRD TO REMEMBER
EVERYTHING—EVERY SINGLE
THING!
Images also prevented Mr. S from expressing himself clearly in conversation. As
Mr. S spoke, the words would create images
in his mind that were often unrelated to
what he was saying. Distracted from his
train of thought, he would then begin to
talk about these images. Making sense of his
rambling conversation, as Dr. Luria admitted, was often a chore.
As the images in Mr. S’s mind controlled
his thoughts more and more, he began to
confuse his imagination with reality. This
affected his performance in everyday life. For
example, once Mr. S needed to defend himself in court on some minor charge. Before
going to the courthouse, he vividly pictured
the scene that he expected to see. What he
actually saw when he arrived in court, however, was not at all what he had imagined.
The judge was on the left not the right, and
the courtroom looked different. This so flustered Mr. S that he could not defend himself
and lost his case. Incidents like this plagued
Mr. S throughout his life. His helplessness
in dealing with them, as he sadly admitted,
caused others to see him as “a dull, awkward,
somewhat absent-minded fellow.”
Most of us will never be able to remember
as much information as Mr. S. Yet we can still
improve our memories if we practice using
mnemonic strategies. Who knows how much
improvement is possible? S.F.’s extraordinary
feat suggests that even an ordinary memory
can improve dramatically. With a little work,
our minds may be capable of much more than
we ever imagined.
AGREED! YOU HAVE
TO MAKE SOME
ROOM FOR NEW
STUFF, RIGHT?
YEAH, SOMETIMES
IT’S GOOD TO JUST
FORGEDDABOUTIT!
15
The
Pearl Inside
NAMI FOLLOWED HER
ba-ba past
a maze of crates filled with purple octopus,
spiky sea urchins, and brown turban snails.
She longed for an ocean breeze to breathe
life into the humid, fishy-smelling air of the
market.
They stopped at a crate full of abalone
that had been brought up by Ba-ba and the
other ama divers. Nami knew that abalone
was considered a delicacy, but she’d always
been more interested in its beautiful shell.
16
Illustrated by Ying-Fang Shen
text © 2018 by Julie Angeli, art © 2018 by Ying-Fang Shen
by Julie Angeli
Part One
An older woman with wrinkled hands
and a kind face bowed to Ba-ba. “Ohayo,
Yoshi.” She fingered an abalone shell that had
been cleaned out and left behind. It was the
size of a dinner plate, crusty and dull red on
the outside but shimmering mother-of-pearl
on the inside.
“Ohayo.” Ba-ba bowed. “This is my
granddaughter, Nami.” She looked at Nami.
“Mrs. Waki and I have been diving together
a long time.”
AN ABALONE IS A SEA SNAIL WITH
A SHELL THAT’S PROTECTIVE ON THE
OUTSIDE AND COATED WITH MOTHEROF-PEARL ON THE INSIDE..
Nami bowed.
Mrs. Waki examined Nami. “She has
grown. She looks strong.”
Nami pulled her shorts down to cover her
thighs, wishing she’d inherited the slim build
of her mother rather than the stocky build of
her father and grandmother.
Ba-ba smiled. “She’s a strong swimmer.”
Mrs. Waki shook her head. “It’s too bad
this summer is the last ama competition.”
Nami choked back a cry. She’d counted
on entering the contest when she was older.
Her dream was to become an ama diver like
Ba-ba and the other women who’d been diving for centuries without tanks or modern
technology, bringing up shellfish from the
blue-green Japanese sea.
Ba-ba sighed. “The catch has dwindled.
No need for so many ama.”
Mrs. Waki handed the abalone shell to
Nami. “This is a nice one. Keep it.” She
looked back at Ba-ba. “She’s young, but
maybe Nami could compete this year.”
Nami knew the answer to this.
Ba-ba shook her head. “Nami’s mother
would never allow it.”
Mama had once lost a close friend to the
sea. From then on, she thought the sea was
dangerous—no place for her twelve-year-old
daughter. She wanted Nami to stay home and
babysit her little brother Hiro all summer.
But the sea called to Nami as it did to
Ba-ba. She’d hoped that entering the contest
would one day prove to her mother that she
could be an ama. Now, with the contests
ending, she wouldn’t have that chance . . .
unless somehow she could compete this year,
like Mrs. Waki said. But first she’d have to
practice. That would require going to the ama
fishing grounds—without Mama knowing.
THE NEXT DAY Nami promised Mama that
she would take Hiro to the park and watch
him carefully. Instead, she’d gotten Genji, a
new friend she’d met at the beginning of the
summer, to take them on his fishing boat so
she could dive and watch the ama while he sat
on the boat with Hiro. Spitting out a mouthful of salt water as another wave crashed over
her, Nami tried to convince herself that she
was doing the right thing.
17
Nami took a deep breath,
stretching her lungs to make space
for more air, and blew it out. Then
she took another breath and dove.
The roar of the wind and waves
was replaced by the hum of the
ocean, muffled, like the sounds she
heard when she placed a shell against
her ear. She could barely see her
hands in the shadowy green water,
but she could sense movement all
around her.
A ray of sunlight, shining from
above the surface, broke through
the clouds, turning the water a clear,
bright green. Nami swam through
giant stalks of kelp. The seaweed
coated the ocean floor like a forest,
stalks stretching upward, fighting
each other for the light. The leaves
glowed yellow-green, and each stalk
was covered with gas-filled, round
sacs the size of Ping-Pong balls, a
natural adaptation to keep the blades
buoyant. Somewhere in this mysterious underwater forest, Ba-ba was
diving for shellfish.
Nami swam along a rocky ledge.
She spotted a five-pointed red starfish
18
I’D LOVE TO SEE WHAT’S
UNDERWATER...
RIGHT. IF ONLY YOU
DIDN’T HAVE TO GO
UNDERWATER.
clinging to a rock. Two of its points curled
under, like it was ready to push off. Ba-ba
said that the largest abalone hid among the
rocks. Nami wanted to investigate but
needed air.
She shot to the surface, took a few deep
breaths, and dove down again. The current
was strong. Nami relaxed her body and let it
carry her past coral and schools of brightly
colored fish. She stretched out her arms and
touched a dark, gnarly oyster with her fingertips, then put her hand around its rough shell.
It was the ugliest oyster she’d ever seen. Ba-ba
always said that the ugliest oysters held
the most beautiful pearls. She smiled and
dropped the oyster into a mesh bag that hung
from her wrist.
When Nami came to the surface again,
the current had carried her a great distance.
The air was filled with the peculiar whistling sound ama divers make when exhaling
the deep breaths they take between dives.
Floating wooden buckets dotted the ocean.
A few heads popped up next to the buckets.
Nami was in the right place. This was where
she would learn to be an ama.
On her next dive, she spotted a diver
with a white bandanna on her head. A rope
tethered the woman to her bucket, where she
would stash her catch between dives. Nami
surfaced and spied a bucket with a bright
yellow ribbon tied to it, the same color as a
yellow tang, Ba-ba’s favorite fish. She swam
toward it.
When Nami got to the bucket, she took a
big breath and descended, staying close to the
rope. Ba-ba could dive to over fifteen meters.
Nami hoped this dive was shallow.
At three meters, she felt pain in her ears.
She plugged her nose and blew, relieving
the pressure and clearing her ears as Ba-ba
had taught her when she was younger. The
pain stopped, but Nami felt the water getting colder as she swam deeper. She shivered,
wishing she had a wetsuit.
Nami spotted a diver wearing a black
wetsuit with a bright yellow patch on the
knee. It was Ba-ba. Nami’s heart swelled as
she watched Ba-ba glide through the water,
aiming straight toward a rocky shelf, home to
an abalone snail. Arms stretched out in front
of her, Ba-ba kicked with her short, powerful legs, as focused on her catch as Nami was
focused on her.
Ba-ba wedged her body into a crevice.
She pulled out a long, sharp dive knife and
slipped it between the rock and an abalone,
straining to keep it steady. Nami knew that
if Ba-ba let up, the snail would slip further
into the crevice and out of reach. It looked
like Ba-ba was doing battle with a mysterious
monster rather than a thirty-centimeter snail.
Nami wanted to get closer but didn’t
have enough air. She came up next to Ba-ba’s
bucket. There were three abalone inside.
Ba-ba shot up next to her and dropped a huge
abalone in the bucket. She’d won the battle.
Ba-ba pulled her mask down around her
neck and looked at Nami. “I thought I recognized that swimsuit pattern, but I didn’t
expect my granddaughter to be following me
around underwater.”
THIRTY CENTIMETERS IS
ABOUT TWELVE INCHES, OR
ONE FOOT.
HEY! I HAVE
ONE FOOT.
19
“I wanted to see you dive.” Nami looked
in the bucket. “That last one was huge.”
Ba-ba smiled then looked at Nami’s waist
and scowled. “You aren’t wearing a safety rope.”
Nami cringed. “I didn’t think I needed
one. I followed your rope down.”
“Never dive without a rope. The currents
are unpredictable. Does your mother know
you’re here?”
Nami stared at the water. “Not exactly.”
Ba-ba looked around. “How did you get
here?”
“Genji gave me a lift on his boat.” Nami
cringed, knowing she was in big trouble if
Ba-ba told Mama. “Hiro’s with him.” Nami
pointed.
The boat was empty except for two fishing poles hanging off the side. Nami’s chest
tightened. Hiro and Genji were gone.
Nami felt the blood drain from her face.
She swallowed hard, then shouted, “Hiro!”
Her voice was lost in the waves. She began to
swim toward the boat, pumping her arms and
legs as fast as she could, the bitter taste of seawater a painful reminder that she’d ignored
her little brother. He was only five years old
and didn’t know how to swim.
“Nami, wait!” yelled Ba-ba. “We’ll take a
boat.” Ba-ba motioned to a boatman on the
nearest ama boat.
The boatman steered the boat over to
Nami and Ba-ba. Ba-ba pointed to Genji’s
boat. She turned to Nami. “Get in!”
Nami grabbed the hand of the boatman
and let him pull her up. Ba-ba boosted herself
into the boat, untying her safety rope and
leaving the floating bucket.
20
Nami clung to the side of the boat as it
bounced over the waves, her heart racing.
Genji’s boat was at least a hundred meters
away. The wind had picked up and the sea
was rough, making it difficult to see anything
in the water. Nami prayed that Hiro was OK.
They slowed down as they approached
Genji’s boat. Nami dove in before the boat
stopped. She yelled for Hiro, straining her
throat with each cry. She saw his head bobbing up and down, arms flailing. She raced
to Hiro with every last drop of strength.
“Hiro!” She grabbed him. “Are you all
right?”
Genji popped up next to him.
Hiro giggled. “I’m great. The fish aren’t
biting, so Genji is teaching me how to swim.”
“What?” Nami narrowed her eyes. “Genji,
what are you thinking? Hiro can’t swim!”
Hiro had always been afraid when Papa had
tried to teach him to swim.
Genji looked at Hiro. “He seems to be
doing OK, if you ask me.”
Nami let go of Hiro. He bobbed up and
down, laughing at the top of every bob. He
had a life jacket tied around his waist with his
legs through the armholes.
“Hiro was bored, so I thought he’d like
to get in the water. He said life jackets made
him choke. I told him he could put it around
his waist to get a better feel for the water.”
Nami shook her head. Hiro always complained when Papa made him wear a life jacket.
Hiro’s smile lit up his face. “Next time I’ll
practice breath holding with you.”
Ba-ba and the boatman stood on their
boat staring down at Nami, Genji, and Hiro.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Genji said
to Ba-ba. “I just figured a kid who lived on
an island should know how to swim.”
Ba-ba started to say something then
pursed her lips.
Ba-ba’s boatman slammed his life ring
onto the deck. “I’ve left three ama without a
boat because of you.”
Genji bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I
thought I was helping.”
“Your help, Genji, is not appreciated.” The
man scowled at Nami, his white eyebrows
bunching together. “I’m sure your mother will
not be pleased when I tell her that you interfered with the day’s catch and endangered
your brother.” He shot daggers at Nami. “You
don’t belong here.”
Ba-ba sighed. “I’ll do a few extra dives,
Kano. Genji, please take Nami and Hiro back
to shore.” She looked down at Nami, shook
her head, and turned away as the boat sped
back to the diving grounds.
Nami’s face burned with shame. She’d
never be an ama now. “I’m sorry, Ba-ba,”
Nami whispered under her breath, but all she
saw was her grandmother’s back.
to be continued
21
by
R achel Delaney cRaft
The coat of blue
The cape of gold
The slow and genteel stride
The gilded mask
The lofty brow
The thousand opalescent eyes.
The crown of lapis lazuli—
A prince
in avian disguise.
LAPIS LAZULI IS A
DEEP BLUE MINERAL
USED IN JEWELRY
MAKING AND ART.
AVIAN MEANS
BIRDLIKE.
22
text © 2018 by Rachel Delaney Craft
The Bird’s Message
A J
F
t
ewish
olk
Ale
Retold by Pamela Love
A
story mAy begin in many ways. This one starts with a song. . . .
Early one morning, a queen was riding through the woods
some distance from her palace. As the sun painted the eastern
sky with shades of pink, birdsong filled the air. To the keeneared queen, one of these songs stood out from the rest, the
notes soaring high and sweet with cheer.
Halting her horse, the queen whispered, “Never have I heard
such a melody. I shall not rest until I make that bird my own.”
Dismounting, the queen scanned the branches until she discovered the starling whose voice she so admired. His dark blue
plumage shaded into vivid purple around his neck. She set a
snare, which she baited with sliced mango—a rare treat for this
bird. A short time later, she collected her prize, tucked him into
a saddlebag, and cantered home.
“Fetch the royal birdcage!” she commanded. A
lady-in-waiting brought the gaudy thing forth,
setting it beside the throne. “Only the finest
home for you, my treasure,” the queen
crooned, as she fastened the door shut
behind the starling. She hung the key
to the cage on a narrow gold chain
GAUDY MEANS
RICHLY
she wore around her neck.
ORNAMENTED.
Alarm at his sudden loss of
freedom, not to mention the
noise and stares from the people
CROONED
of the palace, kept the starling
MEANS TO SING
OR SPEAK IN
trembling and silent behind
A SMOOTH,
SOOTHING WAY.
the gold-plated steel bars. The
queen offered tasty berries to
him, which eased his fright
Illustrated by Anja Klauss
text © 2018 by Pamela Love, art © 2018 by Anja Klauss
23
somewhat, though his grip remained tense on
the perch.
However, it wasn’t long before the queen
only fed him as a reward for singing. To her
delight, he quickly learned to cooperate.
Her pleasure with this new possession only
increased when the starling began to speak
to her, and not merely imitating words, as
parrots do.
Yet always these words were appeals for
release. “I am wild. I am not meant to be a
pet, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, but you are not a pet. Instead, you
are one of my most valuable possessions. You
are an ornament to my palace, decorating it with
your glorious voice. Now, sing once more.”
This went on for weeks. Certainly the queen
noticed there was some sweetness lacking in the starling’s
song, but hearing her bird singing whenever she chose made up
for any slight imperfection.
One morning, the starling awoke with a wail. “Unfair! Unfair! That a
human should fly, while I remain trapped here in the palace!”
“Fly?” asked the queen. “Why, what do you mean?”
“When I slept, I dreamt that you collected a new treasure, a flying carpet, on
which you soared above the earth, as I once did,” replied the bird.
The queen laughed. “What a notion! There is no such thing as a flying carpet.
Dreams are often of impossible things. Sing, my treasure, and forget such nonsense.”
But that day the starling’s song was decidedly off-key. Over the next two days
he sang less and less, and grew thinner as his diet diminished. The queen switched
tactics. Servants brought a variety of different insects and sweet fruits, such as
mangoes, dates, and pomegranates, to tempt his appetite, without result.
Worried about her valuable bird, the queen said frankly, “I will not set you free.
Is there anything else I can do to make you happy enough to sing once more?”
After thinking it over, the bird answered, “I wish to send a message to
my friends and family in the forest. They don’t know my fate. They may
mistakenly grieve for my death. Or perhaps they hold out false hope for
my return. Let me at least let them know I dwell in a palace, locked
24
in a golden cage by a queen. Perhaps I can resign myself to captivity if those I
love know the truth.”
With a snap of her fingers, the queen summoned a trusted knight. “Ride
swiftly to the forest due east of here. Announce this starling’s message in three
separate places, so it is certain that the friends and kin of my treasure-bird hear
it.” She hesitated. “When you return, tell us if they have any news for him. People
often send messages by pigeons. Why shouldn’t a bird send a message by a person?”
The knight lost no time reaching the woods. Birds filled the trees surrounding him, hunting, nesting, or feeding. By a winding stream, the knight
announced, “The starling that departed these woods the day after the last full
moon now lives in a cage by the side of the queen. She considers him a treasure.” The birds seemed to take no notice.
An hour’s ride away, the knight repeated these words by a moss-covered rock.
Once again, the birds ignored him.
Persevering, the knight continued his journey until he found the tallest tree
in the forest. A few birds nearly identical to the queen’s hopped from branch to
branch. “Ah, no doubt these are the kin of the queen’s starling. Likely they will
be interested in the message.”
He drew in a deep breath. “Hark, starlings. The starling that departed this
forest on the day after the last full moon has been taken by the queen of this
realm. She considers him one of her finest treasures and listens to him sing every
day.” There was dead silence from the starlings.
Somewhat annoyed by this reaction, the knight added, “He sings from a
golden cage!”
At that, one of the starlings plunged to the forest floor. Beside the roots, she
flung back her head and flailed her wings. Alarmed, the knight stepped back.
At last the bird collapsed. One feather seemed to twitch feebly for a moment,
before becoming still.
Sinking to his knees, the knight cradled the bird in his hands. “I am so sorry,
little one. If only I had known! But I should have realized how precious freedom
must seem to you creatures of the air. Plainly the queen’s starling is already grieving his captivity. Oh, what shall I tell your kin now?” Deeply ashamed, the knight
replaced the starling on the forest floor, gently covering her with a few leaves.
Even the knight’s horse sensed his low mood and plodded home. Wishing
he were anywhere else, the knight’s sense of duty drove him to the throne room.
“What news?” inquired the queen.
Kneeling before her, the knight shook his head. He couldn’t look either the
queen or the starling in the eye.
“Nothing?” whispered the bird. “Have I been forgotten so soon?”
“Anything but!” the knight burst out. “When I told them of your new . . .
position, the other starlings stopped to listen. But when I said you were
locked in a cage, one fell dead at my feet, and I could only cover her
with leaves.”
“No!” shrieked the queen’s bird. He swooned on his perch
and plunged to the bottom of the cage, flinging back his
head and flailing his wings. At last, he collapsed. One feather
seemed to twitch feebly for a moment, before becoming still.
The queen was horrified, but no more so than the
knight. She opened the cage, and carried the starling to
the window sill. “Air, he needs fresh air!” The knight
shoved the window open, and a cool breeze flowed into
the throne room.
Instantly, the starling launched himself outside, where
he perched high on a cherry tree branch. “Thank you, messenger! Because of you, one of my kin was able to teach me
how to escape.” Moments later, in a flash of blue and purple
feathers, the former queen’s treasure was gone.
A story can end in many ways. This one ends as it began,
with the most joyful song the queen had ever heard.
26
Across
1. Red-breasted bird
3. Hen’s baby
6. Large ocean bird
7. What most birds do
9. Sharp pain
and behold
10.
11. Become visible
14. What birds lay
16. That is (Latin abbreviation)
17. Compass direction
18. What geese do in spring and fall
siskin is a type of finch
20. A
21. Cubic centimeter (abbreviation)
22. Bird’s home
25. Sudsy foam
26. Short for each
HOW CAN
27. Opposite of fake
THESE LITTLE
CUTIES BE
28. Night bird of prey
FRIENDS WITH
29. Birds found in city parks UGLY?
30. Mass of birds
31. Big black birds
MEWY
Down
WHEE!
1. To puff up feathers
as a bee
2.
4. Sick
5. Bird’s passage through air
3
2
1
5
4
6
7
8
9
11
10
15
14
12
13
16
17
18
19
20
21
23
22
24
26
25
27
28
29
30
31
Solution on page 47
1
R
8.
U
9.
F
12.
7
F
13.
10
L
15.
14
E
19.
20.
20
P
23.
A
24.
27
R
28.
R
29.
O
T
O
2
B
I
3
N
C
H
5
4
I
C
K
F
Section of a felled tree
L
L
U
What6 birds do when they groom their feathers
A G U
I
L
L
S E
Nickname
of Ron Weasley’s owl 9
8
L
Y
P
A N G
A bird’s roost11 12 13
O
A
H
E A
R
P P
Odor 15
16
17
G G S
E
A S T
I
E
Expert pilot
18
19
I
M
A T
E
G R
Talking bird
23
24
21
22
I
N E
N
E S T
C C
To stitch25cloth together
26
A
L
E A
T H E R
An eagle’s claws
28
E
L
A
O W L
Capital of Norway
29
P
O
S
I
G E O N
Short for professional
R
30
F
L
O
N
L
31
C
K
C
R
O
THEY SPEAK
THE SAME
LANGUAGE...
W
S
27
Jewel
in
the Air
by Kris MacLeod
28
text © 2018 by Kris MacLeod
A
LITTLE BIRD skims across the garden,
flitting among the fragrant blossoms and bright leaves
of new seedlings. He is a master of the air, at times
swooping and diving with impressive speed, at others,
hovering as if hanging from a thread of silk, his rapidly
beating wings nearly imperceptible. He scans the garden
for protein-rich bugs and samples the sweet nectar of
flowers. But he is looking for something else: the reason
for his 2,000-mile journey to this spring garden. His
search will not be long.
This tiny bird, weighing little more than a penny,
has been a source of wonder to people throughout the
ages. Ruby-throated hummingbirds live in Central
America in the winter and migrate to the eastern United
States and Canada for the summer season. Native peoples of these areas have long observed these flying jewels
with fascination and shared stories about their creation.
This Mayan story has been told for thousands of
years. . . .
THE MAYA GREAT God made all the animals of the world and all the birds of the
air. When he was done, he found a few leftover scraps. He gathered tiny bones, gray feathers,
and a long, thin beak and formed a new bird, smaller than a man’s thumb. The bird was given
life, and the Great God was pleased.
This tiny creation would use its long beak to find food deep inside nectar-rich flowers,
where no other bird could reach. Although the new bird was small, the Great God gave him
strong wings and the agility of an acrobat. He could fly forward, backward, zigzag, and upside
down. He could hover in one place or dive in an instant. The hum made by his fast-beating
wings sounded like dzu-nu-ume, dzu-nu-ume, so the Mayans gave him the name Dzunuume,
the Hummingbird. Then the Great God created a female mate for the hummingbird, so the
two could make a family. But first, there would be a wedding!
Many animals gathered to help with preparations. The splendid quetzal bird offered its elegant green tail feathers to adorn the plain, gray birds. Butterflies danced in the air with fluttering
wings, as a gentle breeze scattered sweet-smelling flower petals. Spiders decorated the wedding
path with silken webs, offering their finely spun threads as a gift to the female to use for her
nest. The house finch presented his beautiful red feathers as a scarf for the male hummingbird.
The sun emerged triumphantly from behind a cloud to bless the new couple. As sunlight
bathed the tiny birds, their green feathers sparkled, and the male’s scarf dazzled with brilliant
flashes of red and gold. The sun promised that whenever the hummingbird looked to the sun,
his scarf would glimmer an iridescent ruby red, but when he turned away, it would darken
again, to remind the tiny birds of the gray feathers they first wore and the kindness of their
friends. The Great God was pleased with all these gifts and created many new hummingbirds
with the same brilliant colors and iridescence.
IRIDESCENT MEANS SHIMMERY, SHOWING
DIFFERENT COLORS FROM DIFFERENT ANGLES.
Unlike the female, the male hummingbird has throat feathers that glimmer
a brilliant ruby red in sunlight. Tiny air
bubbles trapped inside a thin film on
the feathers’ tips refract light rays
like soap bubbles or a prism.
29
A hummingbird’s nest is about
the size of a walnut—just big
enough for the two, bean-sized
eggs the female lays.
IN
THE GARDEN, the ruby-throated
hummingbird continues his search. After his
long journey from his winter home, including a 500-mile nighttime flight across the
Gulf of Mexico, he is busy rebuilding his
store of energy. Strong wings carry him from
flower to flower, beating invisibly more than
fifty times each second. Hovering steadily, he
slips his needlelike beak into the cone-shaped
petals to reach the sweet nectar inside. On the
move again, he snatches fruit flies out of the
air, opening his beak wide to ensure a catch.
Suddenly, there is a stir in the garden, and
the air is filled with another unmistakable
hum. Finally, a female has arrived! She also
searches the garden for nectar, her emerald
green back sparkling in the sunshine. The
male hummingbird must act quickly.
Soaring into the air, he power-dives into
the garden then arcs upward, creating a giant U
with his flight. As he reaches the highest point,
he twists in the air and zooms down again, his
ruby throat flashing and glimmering in the
sunlight. At the bottom of each arc, as though
swinging on a pendulum, he speeds closely by
the female at fifty to sixty miles per hour. His
speed, strength, and beautiful iridescence are
all on display in his aerobatic maneuvers.
30
The female watches closely as the hummingbird dances just for her, exerting all of
his energy in the performance. At the end,
the female will decide if she will choose him
as a mate. Like the wedding day of the first
hummingbirds, perhaps these two birds will
join together. Perhaps soon, in a nest carefully
constructed by the female from leaves and
twigs, bound together with the silken threads
of a spider’s web, a new generation of hummingbirds will emerge. They will carry the
same traits of strength, agility, and beauty as
their parents, and those of the first mythical
hummingbirds when the world was new.
Mom on her nest
Written and Illustrated
by Jim Arnosky
off the top of a plastic baby bottle and
1. Take
remove the nipple.
the bottle with a mixture
6. Fillof one
part sugar to four parts
water.
the mouth of the bottle on the lid of
2. Center
a small plastic margarine container and trace
around it.
on the marga7. Snap
rine container and
punch four holes in it
with a sharp pencil.
8. Now hang the hummingbird feeder upside down by
cut out the circle you just drew to make
3. Carefully
a hole in the lid. (You can use an X-acto knife—
pictured here—or sharp pointed scissors.)
the bottle through the
4. Push
hole in the lid and screw on the
bottle top.
a sharp pencil, punch a hole
5. With
in the bottom of the bottle. Tie a
sturdy knot in one end of a string
and use the pencil to push the
other end of the string through
the hole. Pull the string tight and
drip glue around it to seal the
hole in the bottle. Let dry.
its string and wait for your dinner guests.
Note:
There are a few things you have to remember when you’re playing host for a hummingbird. It’s
important that you don’t use artificial sweeteners or
honey in your food mixture: real sugar is the only way
to go. Artificial sweeteners have no nutritional value
for the birds, and honey spoils very easily. Scientists
have noted that honey can act as a poison that causes
sores in the birds’ mouths.
Some people add red food coloring to the food
mixture because hummingbirds are attracted to
the color. However, no
substantial research has
been done on how food
dyes affect the birds, so
it’s safer simply to tie a
red ribbon around your
feeder—it will attract
them just the same.
31
Part 4
by Nell Wright
Fifteen-year-old Nodi longs to go on raids
with his pirate father, Polyonus, but his lameness
is a drawback. He is frustrated at always having
to stay behind with his mother, Mana, and his sister, Sara. Several others live on the pirates’ island
as well, working together as one large family. Nodi
helps take care of Alec and Dina’s children, as
Dina is about to have another baby.
Polyonus and his crew, Alec and Petri, launch
their raids from a secluded cove. Out in the water,
they board Roman ships, taking prisoners and plunder. One stormy day, the pirates return with four
Father rowed, f acing forward
in the stern seat. He got a stronger stroke that
way. When I rose to put up the sail, Father
shipped the oars and reached out to help. As
I hoisted the heavy fabric, I looked back at
the island. The setting sun made my special
tree on the cliff stand out. My eyes wandered
fondly down along the shore where I liked to
catch octopus and watch dolphins play, but
they went quickly back to the tree. Something
reflected in its top.
32
Illustrated by Ned Gannon
text © 2018 by Nell Wright, art © 2018 by Ned Gannon
captives. One is Gaius Julius Caesar, a cocky Roman
boy about Nodi’s age. With him are an older Greek
physician and two Gallic slaves. As the others unload
the plunder, Polyonus takes time to speak with Geron,
his first captain, now too old to sail.
The next day Polyonus and Alec set off in the
small boat to negotiate a ransom for the Roman
prisoner, Gaius. They take the Greek with them. In
their absence, Gaius asks to explore the island. He
and Nodi climb a tree over a windy cliff that looks
out over the sea. Gaius seems to be collecting information about his whereabouts, and Nodi fears he
has revealed too much when he mentions the island
of Lesbos, visible in the distance. On the way back,
Gaius says he has lost his gold belt buckle. That
night, Nodi’s father, Polyonus, goes out to look for
it but can’t find it.
After a third trip to Lesbos, Father returns with
the ransom money. It is time for Gaius to leave. Nodi
is excited when his father says, “Yes, Nodi, you’ll come
this time.” Father tells him to bring his knife and
guard Gaius on the journey. The Roman boy quietly
warns Nodi to get the women and children away
from the island as he will be returning with forces to
crucify the pirates. Nodi sits in the boat, mulling over
Gaius’s words. Could Gaius find his way back?
A beacon, turning and twinkling. I knew
instantly what it was. Father had searched for
it down the cliff and among the boulders, but
Gaius had cleverly left his navigational aid in
the tree.
“Polyonus,” I said slowly, looking over his
shoulder toward shore. I had to do something
quickly. Gaius would jump me if he knew
what I had seen. Or maybe he already knew.
The last weeks rushed into my head. I had
been so careless, thinking I had made a friend
of Gaius. Feeling queasy, I stiffened my arm
holding the knife.
I had never even killed a goat. Mana
always did that.
Father smiled at me, unaware. “Are you
glad to be on this expedition, Nodi? I’m sorry
I forgot last time.”
Gaius grabbed for my knife. I stabbed
him through his lower arm. It twitched and
Gaius paused, which gave Father a moment.
Quick as a wildcat he dropped the steering
oar and wrapped our prisoner tightly in the
sail.
Looking at the mixture of pain and swagger on Gaius’s face, I felt my stomach heave. I
spewed my supper into the sea and wiped my
face with my sleeve.
“Nodi,” Father said, “tell me.”
“Look. Gaius left his buckle in the tree.”
As I pointed, the sun moved too low. No
glint.
He trusted me. “I understand. Put the
knife here next to me. Swim to shore. Leave
with everyone immediately. Mana knows
where to go. I will find you. Wait, tear off the
bottom of your tunic and cover his eyes.”
“Shouldn’t we . . .”
“Do exactly as I say.”
This was all in our language, which I was
pretty sure Gaius hadn’t learned. But now I
knew what he was capable of.
I tucked the knife under Father’s thigh,
shed everything except my warm hat, and
fixed the blindfold. Father nodded toward the
sea, and I plunged in.
I had never swum so far. My arms didn’t
tire, though my legs waved weakly behind
me, keeping me level. The oncoming darkness
made the sea frightening. I set an even pace,
except for those moments when I swallowed
a wave. Then I strained to reorient myself to
keep up with the pull of the tide. When I
finally made it to shore, I fell to my knees. I
wrung out my sopping hat and put it back on.
Woolen, it provided some warmth. I got painfully to my feet and immediately took care of
the one thing Father had neglected: I climbed
the tree and retrieved the buckle, hoping it
was Gaius’s only landmark.
Mana sprang to her feet when I limped
into camp that night. I raised my hand,
showing her the buckle. With a soft cry of
bewilderment and worry, she wrapped me in
a blanket and slid me between a log and the
fire. I told her in cold, shivering stutters what
Father had said.
“Gaius will come back,” she interpreted.
I nodded, still chilled. “Sit here until you’re
warm. I’ll wake the others. That boy certainly
fooled us with his vanity and his honor. He is
a cold-blooded Roman.”
I nodded sadly. It was true. He had fooled
us. Mostly me.
Alec came out of his hut. The toddlers,
stumbling half asleep, held his hands.
“Mana, Dina’s time has come.”
“I’ll see to Dina,” Mana said, her eyes
showing strain. “You and Petri get the boat
ready. Put your girls in the bow. We leave
before the moon rises.”
Alec knew not to question orders, but his
face showed he didn’t understand. “We can’t
move Dina now. She’s birthing!”
Mana turned him toward the boat.
“Women have done worse than deliver at sea.
I am captain tonight and I say we’re leaving.
34
Set her in the space in front of the thwart as
comfortably as you can. I’ll make sure the
baby comes safely.”
“We’re leaving? What about Father?” Sara
asked, emerging sleepily from our hut, belting
her dress.
“He’ll know where we’ve gone. Sara, wake
Petri and the boys. Bring blankets, as many as
you can. Water.”
Petri and the twins crowded out of their
hut.
“Nodi! Petri, load the boat,” Mana delegated. Then she hurried off to help Dina.
“Geron won’t get up!” one of the twins
told me.
Still shivering and barely able to shift
my left foot, I found myself a woolen tunic,
wrapped my legs with cloth, put on sandals,
and ducked into Petri’s hut.
Old Geron, his eyes too wide open,
writhed as if he were struggling with an invisible serpent. I took his hands, and he quieted.
The twins huddled together in the corner.
“Geron?” I asked.
He looked past me wildly.
“Can you get up?”
No answer. His body turned rigid; perhaps his tongue was stiff.
“Boys,” I said, “stay here with him.”
One twin laid a blanket over Geron, and
the other sat on the mat, gently pulling the
old man’s head onto his lap.
Dina was already on the boat, which
had been dragged mostly into the water.
Alec stood on the launching ladder, looking
helpless, blankets in his arms. Men were not
welcome at births, but there he was. Petri was
setting the logs for launch.
A THWART IS A STRUT PLACED ACROSS
A BOAT TO BRACE IT.
Water was next. I lifted a full jar. Going
toward the boat, I called up to Mana, “Geron
is having an attack!” Bracing my swollen leg
against the hull, I lifted the heavy jar up to Alec.
Mana peered briefly over the side of the
boat. “Leave Geron. He can tell Father we’ve
gone safely.”
“He can’t talk.”
“Nodi, you’ve been brave tonight; you’re
saving our lives. Don’t argue with me now.
Your father will cope. He’ll be only a couple
of hours behind us, I promise. Petri, you
and Alec tie up the slaves. There’s no room
in the boat—put them on the raft. We’ll
tow them.”
I returned to the hut and pried the boys
from Geron’s side. Remembering Father’s
affection for his former captain, I made sure
the old man’s head was pillowed and put a jar
of water close by.
One of the twins looked up at me.
“Grandfather doesn’t know what’s happening.”
Same as the rest of us. I ordered the boys
out to the boat.
Dina screamed with pain. The slaves were
tied to the crude raft, cursing us loudly in
their Gallic tongue. The little girls wept in
Alec’s lap. Petri took the steering oar.
I pulled the boarding plank away and
pushed the boat’s stern over the logs. As the
boat began to float, I pulled myself in. Petri
and I poled as hard as we could, and we
finally pulled free of the sandy bottom.
The raft jerked in behind us.
And so, in that dawn, we sailed away from
home, three families squeezed into the boat
along with food and blankets. Father had made
an efficient crew of us, so we left efficiently.
36
Efficient, except for the hidden ransom
money. Father would bring that when he
came. I had the gold buckle for necessities
until we reached Mana’s family in Libya.
I sat facing the stern, my back to Dina.
Petri steered carefully around the point. I
raised the sail and adjusted it for the wind
behind us. Alec sat next to me, holding his
toddlers close, their faces turned away from
their mother’s agony.
What would it be like living in the Libyan
desert, among the goats? Would there be anything to beat like the sea in my heart? Would
we even get there, ten in a little boat across
the middle sea?
I missed Father’s confidence. When he
returned from Lesbos, he’d make old Geron
comfortable, or bury him. He’d dig up the
treasure and set sail in the small boat to follow us across to Libya.
I shifted, uncomfortable. Usually
Polyonus was the one setting out into danger
while we waited ashore. I wanted my actions
this evening to save us, but I was not sure.
Halfway to the next island, I untied
the raft and let it go without looking at the
slaves. At the same time, our boat took a lift
from the wind and really set out. The twins
gave me a nasty look when they realized I
had betrayed their Gallic friends. I signaled
silence. To us they were simply a burden.
Behind me, Dina panted with the pain of
delivery, distracting us all.
“Turn away, boys,” Petri said.
I tried. A boy should not watch a birth,
but that night one did, and he never forgot it.
Mana sat cramped under the rowing
seats with Dina’s wild screams. When she fell
silent, Mana held up a squirming baby. She
and Sara rejoiced in the way of our Libyan
ancestors, with a high ululation. Alec bowed
his head to Mana in thanks.
I covered my face and cried from everything. Geron’s agony, Gaius’s perfidy, leaving
home, the joy of a new child. I turned my
head away so the twins couldn’t see my tears.
I wished I had my father at that moment.
Petri slapped my shoulder. “Don’t worry,
Nodi, Polyonus is the best sailor in the middle sea.”
I gazed out over the dark water as it heaved
restlessly under the gray light of dawn. No
boats came out of Lesbos, neither Father’s nor
Roman ones. I lowered my gaze to the rushing
water. Gaius had once called us godless barbarians, but here, below me, was my god.
A ULULATION IS A
WAVERING, WARBLING
HOWL OR CRY.
“Keep Polyonus safe, sea. Bring him to us
in Libya as soon as you can.”
But the sea is the sea. Although we made
a new life in Libya, I never saw my father
again.
AUTHOR’S NOTE Two Roman historians outline this story in their lives of the Roman statesman
Gaius Julius Caesar. As a boy, Gaius was taken by
pirates on the way to Rhodes. After he was ransomed, he tracked down and crucified the pirates
as he had promised. However, Caesar “mercifully”
had their throats slit before crucifying them—
showing the same mix of tenderness and brutality
that I try to bring across in my story. Except for
the names of Polyonus and the Greek physician
Bourgundus, everything else in this story is made up.
PERFIDY IS TREACHERY OR
DECEIT.
37
LISTEN
TO THIS!
JUST
READ!
I’VE GOT ONE
THAT’S EVEN
BETTER!
“Everyone at
“If you have ever peeled an
Pepperwood
onion, then you know that
Elementary knows
the first thin, papery layer
that I live in
reveals another thin, papery
Treasure Trailers,
layer, and that layer reveals
in the pink-tinted
trailer with the
another, and another, and
AL CAPONE DOES MY SHIRTS
(Tales from Alcatraz)
flamingo
hot-glued
before you know it you
by Gennifer Choldenko
to the roof.”
have hundreds of layers all
submitted by Frances K. via email
HOPE IS A FERRIS WHEEL
over the kitchen table and
by Robin Herrera
thousands of tears in your
submitted by Eva C. of Henrico, VA
“My sweat smells like
eyes, sorry that you ever
“Look, I’m only
started peeling in the first
peanut butter.”
in this for the
pizz a.”
place and wishing that you
JEREMY FINK AND THE MEANING
OF LIFE by Wendy Mass
had left the onion alone to PERCY JACKSON’S GREEK HEROES
submitted by Eve R. of Greenwich, CT
by Rick Riordan
wither away on the shelf of
submitted by Anisya M.
of Mountain View, CA
the pantry while you went
on with your life, even if
“So, there I was, tied
that meant never again
“It was diff icult, later, to
to an altar made from
enjoying the complicated
outdated encyclopedias,
think of a time when Betsy
about to get sacrificed
and overwhelming taste
and Tacy had not been
to the dark powers by a
of
this
strange
and
bitter
cult of evil Librarians.”
friends.”
vegetable.”
“Today I moved to a
twelve-acre rock covered
with cement, topped
with bird turd and
surrounded by water.”
ALCATR AZ VS. THE EVIL
LIBR ARIANS by Brandon Sanderson
submitted by Charlotte Hahn
of Battleground, WA
38
THE END (A Series of Unfortunate
Events, Book 13) by Lemony Snicket
submitted by Tinsley Yoder of Goshen, IN
BETSY-TACY (The Betsy-Tacy series,
Book 1) by Maud Hart Lovelace
submitted by Zoe Ashbaugh
of Lafayette, CO
Have we missed your favorite first sentence?
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King of Beggars
by Joan IssarI
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Hassan sighed as he thought of
Neeloufar. Would she come back today? He
never knew when to expect her. His store was
in the cloth-sellers’ courtyard at one end of the
Esfahan bazaar in old Persia. The fragrance of
kabob and Turkish coffee from the teahouse
next-door lingered in the air as he unlocked
the iron grill that covered his shop entrance
to let in his workers and the soft spring air.
Straightening some bolts of rich cloth,
Hassan smiled at the thought that Neeloufar,
too, loved the brilliant colors and that she
loved poetry as he did. She was intelligent,
with umber gazelle eyes and a silvery voice.
He could talk with her for hours about anything, everything. . . .
He sighed, ran fingers through his dark,
wavy hair, and busied himself. A young beggar
Illustrated by Luthando William Mazibuko
woman in a faded brown chador appeared on
the front veranda and stood silently near the
door. Hassan glanced up, and a radiant smile
softened his thin face. He rushed over to her.
“Neeloufar! I was afraid you might not come!”
She smiled and shook her head. The
threadbare chador slipped back to reveal a
mass of long, dark hair curling at the ends.
Unlike her dirty face and hands, her hair was
gleaming. She hastily pulled the chador back
into place.
Hassan drew her through the shop to the
back room. “Come,” he urged. “We’ll have
tea.” He turned to his servant. “Ahmad!”
Ahmad produced a silver tray with two
steaming glasses of tea and a bowl of sugar
lumps. Hassan and the beggar woman sat on
cushions by a low, round brass tray table.
NEELOUFAR MEANS
WATER LILY.
UMBER IS A LOVELY
DARK REDDISH-BROWN.
KINDA SHREW COLORED.
A CHADOR IS A LOOSE
GARMENT THAT
COVERS A WOMEN
FROM HEAD TO FOOT.
39
“Neeloufar,” he said, relishing the sound.
“Tell me—why do you beg? You could serve
in a respectable home. Why has such beauty
not claimed a husband?”
“No husband wants the burden of family
I carry,” she replied.
“Burden?”
“My father is old, crippled. I have many
younger brothers and sisters. They must eat.
I have to beg to support them.”
“But dear Neeloufar! I have the perfect
solution! I have rooms over my store. Bring
your family here. You can earn your living in
this shop. . . .”
Neeloufar shook her head as she bit her lip.
“Why not?” Hassan gripped her shoulder.
“You must accept my offer!”
Neeloufar gently removed his hand. “I
cannot.”
“Why?” He was almost shouting. “Why?”
“I must go,” she murmured. Then she
rose and slipped through the back door into
the crowded alley before he could stop her.
A surge of rage froze him motionless, then
drained away, leaving him feeling empty. He
wandered back into the shop.
Two women entered. Hassan only noticed
them when one laughed and said, “He is in a
daze! I think he is in love!”
“Ladies, forgive me! A family problem—”
“But, dear Hassan Khan! I thought you
no longer had any living family!”
“Not here.” He smiled. He helped them,
but their refrain echoed in his head: “He is
in love!” Hassan was overwhelmed. It was
true!
40
“She is nothing but a beggar,” he admonished himself. “How can I even think about
someone from the lowest class? No, impossible!” But his heart sang, “In love!”
When it grew dark, Ahmad brought him
his horse. Hassan closed the shop and rode
to his luxurious home, but he had never felt
more lonely. He could not eat and dismissed
the cook.
All night he alternately threw himself
on his bed or paced the floor. How could
Neeloufar refuse his generous offer? He
longed for someone to talk to. But the only
one who understood him was Neeloufar.
He shook with fury, then with despair. And
finally he knew what he had to do.
When dawn at last erased the darkness,
Hassan completed morning prayers and
ordered his horse brought around. He hurried
through empty streets, past the Masjid-eShah—the Shah’s Mosque—across the main
square called Meidan-e-Shah, and into the
cloth-sellers’ courtyard. He handed Ahmad
his horse, banged open the iron grill, and
burst into his shop. His workers followed
him. He began pacing. The assistants eyed
him nervously. It was midmorning before the
silent brown shadow appeared at the door.
“Neeloufar!” cried Hassan. He rushed her
into the back room and closed the door. She
was startled. “Neeloufar! I want to marry you.
I must see your father and arrange our marriage as soon as possible.”
She gazed at him. Her face lit with joy that
turned to sadness. Tears filled her beautiful
eyes. “You cannot marry a beggar!” she said.
e
A GIBBOUS MOON IS ONE THAT’S
PARTWAY BETWEEN HALF AND FULL.
“I do not care what you are or how much
family I must support. I love you. Neeloufar,
I need you!”
She gazed longingly into his eyes. “I love
you, too. But how can we marry?”
“I must see your father. Please . . . right
away!”
She pulled her ragged chador more tightly
under her chin. “I cannot promise, but I will
try.” She opened the door and was gone.
Hassan did not know how he got through
the day. At dusk as he was locking the grill,
a beggar boy brushed by, slipped a note into
his hand, and vanished. It was too dark to
read, so Hassan stumbled across the veranda
to a lantern near the teahouse. The note was
a small piece of paper torn off something. He
read the neat handwriting: “Be at the eastern
A MUZZEIN IS SOMEONE WHO
CALLS MUSLIMS TO PRAYER.
city gate at midnight Thursday. Bring this
note with you. Neeloufar.” She could write?
A beggar girl? She continued to amaze him.
Thursday, of course—on Fridays, businesses
closed for the holy day.
Neeloufar did not come for the next two
days. On Thursday Hassan thought the sun
would never set. That night he left home well
before midnight. He rode through deserted
alleys to the eastern city gate. He saluted the
guard, walked his horse through the foot gate,
then leaned against the mud-brick wall to wait.
The gibbous moon washed the high desert with
silver light. He could hear a muezzin reciting
holy Koran verses from a nearby minaret.
Soon a man approached on horseback.
Hassan was startled when the man asked,
“Hassan Khan?” This was no beggar! He was
A MINARET
IS A TALL,
SLENDER
TOWER ON A
MOSQUE.
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
41
well dressed and had a horse, a fine one. He
held up a small, torn piece of paper.
“I am Hassan,” he replied as he drew his
note from a pocket. The two pieces matched
on the torn side. Satisfied, the man gestured
for him to mount. Hassan did so but was surprised to see the man fasten a halter around
his horse’s neck and hand him a strip of cloth.
The man said, “Forgive me, but I must blindfold and lead you.”
“Why?” asked Hassan. There was no
answer as the man tied a cloth over Hassan’s
eyes.
Hassan was alarmed. The horses started
clopping along the dusty road, and he wondered what he was getting into. Perhaps he
was to be murdered once beyond the city
gates! Well, so be it. If there was no hope of
marrying Neeloufar, he did not care what
happened to him.
Cold wind off the mountains surrounding
Esfahan made Hassan pull his coat close. Ups
and downs and turns he could not see forced
him to grasp the saddle pommel. They were
gradually climbing.
At long last the horses stopped. Hassan
heard the rider dismount and come toward
him. “I will lead you inside and then remove
the blindfold.”
Hassan walked forward cautiously. He
heard a door open, felt a wave of warm air
scented with flowers, and stepped inside. The
blindfold was removed.
For a moment Hassan was dazzled by the
flare of countless candles. He squinted, then
gasped. He stood in a magnificent hall, walls
covered with beautiful frescoes and mirrors,
lined with elaborate candelabras.
He felt a soft tap on his shoulder and
turned to see Neeloufar. She was lovely
beyond words in silken garments of muted
turquoise, more beautiful even than Hassan
had imagined. “Welcome,” she whispered. “It
was my brother who guided you to our home.”
“Your brother?” Hassan gasped. “Your
home? But . . . you said—”
“I must go. My father comes.” She vanished behind a curtain.
Hassan turned to see a tall, distinguished
man striding toward him. His thick white
mustache curved down to blend with long
white hair. Hadn’t Neeloufar said her father
was a crippled old man? This man’s bearing was erect, his clothing the finest. Most
remarkable were his piercing dark eyes under
craggy silver brows. His presence commanded
respect, even awe. Hassan bowed slightly.
“Welcome to our home,” the man said,
extending both hands. Hassan grasped them.
“I am Haji Ali, father of Neeloufar. She has
told me of you. Please have a seat.”
Hassan appreciated the silence as they sat
on thick velvet cushions. It gave him a few
moments to settle the storm of confusion in
his mind and adjust to what he was seeing.
Servants brought tea and sweetmeats.
After tea, Haji Ali clapped his hands.
Musicians and dancers entered. He told
Hassan, “Let us relax, enjoy our supper, and
then we will talk.” And what a feast it was!
Hassan soon found it surprisingly easy to
talk with Haji Ali. After dinner he explained
HERE, HAJI MEANS A MUSLIM WHO HAS
MADE THE PILGRIMAGE TO MECCA.
42
e
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
the reason for his visit, although, of course,
Haji Ali already knew. His host replied
that before marriage could be discussed, he
must give some explanations and conditions.
Hassan nodded agreement.
“I have observed you many times, and you
have seen me . . .”—Hassan was startled and
shook his head. Haji Ali held up a hand—“. . .
but as a beggar.” Hassan couldn’t prevent his
mouth from falling open.
Haji Ali smiled. “As you see, begging
is a prosperous business. We are masters of
disguise. I am, in fact, King of Beggars of
Esfahan. Our profession is a respectable one.
We never permit theft of any kind. By day
we beg, which provides an excellent income
in this prosperous city, and by night we enjoy
the fruits of our endeavors—we banquet with
friends, have poetry readings, music, dancing.
It is a good life.”
Hassan felt dazed. He shook his head
to clear it. “You are surprised,” Haji Ali
continued. “You are a fine young man,
reputable, successful. I have gathered information about you.” Haji Ali smiled. “And
of course, Neeloufar sings your praises to
the skies.”
Hassan blushed. “And what, sir, are your
conditions?”
Haji Ali sighed as he swirled the tea in his
glass. “My daughter is the joy of my life.” He
looked at Hassan. “I must ask you to sell your
business and distribute it as you see fit. Then
come to join us beggars.”
43
Hassan was staggered! He opened his
mouth twice to reply, but no sound came out.
At last he protested, “Sir, that is impossible! I
am a wealthy, respected man. You cannot ask
me to become a beggar! With all due respect,
sir, it just isn’t . . . it isn’t . . .”
“Possible,” Haji Ali finished for him.
“You are shocked, horrified. But it is possible. Think. Your thriving business depends
on shipping and overland transportation,
which are subject to pirates and brigands.
Your livelihood could be destroyed overnight.
Furthermore, you work nonstop, with no
time to enjoy life. Begging is a secure and
honorable profession, although most people,
I admit, do not realize that. You will gain
many friends. We always help one another.
“You must have time to think this over.
It is late. My son will escort you back to the
city. I must tell you that Neeloufar has many
suitors. You are her choice. I need to know
your answer within two weeks. Someone will
come for it. God be with you.”
Hassan returned the way he had come.
He knew he must agree—life without
Neeloufar would be no life at all. Within two
weeks he had settled his affairs.
On the second Thursday, Neeloufar
appeared in the ragged brown chador. He
held her hand, gazed into her beautiful eyes,
and said, “I am ready, my beloved.”
Her face was too radiant for a beggar.
She pulled her chador over it and murmured,
“Meet us as the eastern gate after dark.”
And that is how merchant Hassan became the happiest man in the entire country
and eventually, Hassan, the King of Beggars
of Esfahan.
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
44
WHAT
DRAMA!
WHAT
TALENT!
WAIT FOR ME!
WINNERS
F EBR UAR Y 2 0 18 POETRY CON TEST
Horses
First prize 10 and under
Alexander Defendis, age 10
Hilton, NY
First prize 11 and up
Marianne Cowan, age 13
Houston, TX
First prize 11 and up
Mariana Marhefka, age 11
Woodside, CA
Race Horse
Silver Hooves
The Wild Mare
The horse waits
behind the door,
eager to get out. He’s
ready, hooves brushing against
the ground. And,
when the door opens,
he will sprint, and
run, run, run like lightning
to the finish line.
But do you ever wonder,
Do the horses know why they are running?
Near the dawn of spring, not long ago
I saw a star fall with the snow
All my sense told me to run
But in the end it’s heart that won
And to the star I flew
From the glow, a silhouette
I felt my eyes begin to wet
Tears not sad, mournful, tragic
But sheer bliss from sheer pure magic
And to the shape I flew
A coat of silver, hooves the same
I saw the horse of legend’s fame
The beast for which the choir sings
Behold, a set of shining wings!
And to his side I flew
You won’t believe me when I tell
Of the star that fell to that lonely dell
But constellations dot the sky
And that star fell from the Pegasus eye
And on his back I flew
Galloping free, with no rider,
And with her mate running beside her,
She races the wind. She’s faster than light!
With her stallion along, it feels just right.
But then, swoosh! Flying through the air
Is something that suddenly gives her a scare.
It’s a rope . . . a lasso! Her fright does the rest,
She runs, with hooves pounding the ground and
heart pounding her chest.
Alas, the rope tightens round her neck.
She tries to fight back but they have her in check.
She feels so defeated. They’ve sealed her fate,
Till they put her in a pasture with a fence
and closed gate.
No fence is too high for her, so she jumps over,
Right back into her green fields of clover.
Back with her mate, on the beautiful moor,
Eyes glittering, hooves dancing, she’s wild . . . once more.
45
Second prize 10 and under
Allison Deutsch, age 10
McLean, VA
Second prize 11 and up
Anaya Hintgen, age 11
Eleva, WI
The Horse Left Behind
With the wind whipping through his dark mane and tail,
Mahogany bodies silhouetted on a cliff’s edge,
The stallion surveys his territory.
Pine forest and mountain streams.
The Rocky Mountains in the distance.
He rears, crying a challenge to the wind.
He senses his harem milling behind him and feels
a rush of pride.
He is king of this wild domain, king of mustangs.
Between the ocean and the bay,
On an island not far away,
Groups of wild horses run
Over the land in the afternoon sun.
There are horses to follow and a horse straight ahead,
With a shaggy long tail and a mane on his head.
Through marshes and puddles from the rain’s last pour,
Is a young pony whose hooves got so sore.
He played in the park with the clovers to find
The group had gone forward and left him behind.
And the storm had come back, the sky was getting dark,
But the horse was alone in the marshy, wet park.
Then he heard a sound, hooves, making a thump!
And the horse galloped off toward the sound
with a jump!
Because of the sound, he found his way home,
But never again would the little horse roam.
WHEW! WE’VE GOT UGLY/
LADYBUG JUST ABOUT
FILLED UP. POOR GEORGE
AND TAIL WILL HAVE TO
START A NEW COMPOST
PILE FOR THEIR GARDEN.
WELL, GIANT
LADYBUG/UGLY
IS ON HER THIRD
TRIPLE BATCH OF
COOKIES! WHAT
HAPPENS WHEN
WE RUN OUT
OF CHOCOLATE
CHIPS?
The horse pulls and pulls the moon,
whinnying its lovely tune,
born of a foamy wave,
this grand horse is not a slave,
the lovely sea-foam horse.
The horse runs across the sky
looking for the sun with a watchful eye,
the horse born of sea foam.
The magnificent horse of water,
the moon and water have a connection,
so the horse knows his direction,
the beautiful sea-foam horse.
Third prize 10 and under
Sofia Bartlemay, age 8
Bend, OR
It is dawn,
and the moon that so brightly shone
is setting in the sky,
but do not weep and do not cry,
for the sea-foam horse will come back
to fly high in the sky.
Sea-Foam Horse
The moon travels across the sky,
drawn by a horse that has no wings,
but the horse can fly,
it is the horse born of sea foam.
KUM BAK! GIMMEE
YUMMEE SNEAKIE SNAKKIE!
THIS IS A
PROBLEM FOR
PONDER-O.
WHERE ARE YOU GOING WITH THOSE
COOKIES? I’M STILL HUNGRY!
THEY’RE HERE,
INSIDE THE
MACHINE. ALL
FOR YOU.
THAT’S IT,
THIS WAY,
INTO THE NICE
SNAKKIE SHACK!
READY, TATER? READY,
PONDER-O?
YUM-YUMMY TUMMY
THAT’S
RIGHT, IN
YOU GO...
QUICK!
SWITCH
ON THE
MACHINE!
EEK!
I HOPE THIS
SWITCHES
THEM BACK!
IF THEY BOTH
TRANSFER INTO
PONDER-O, I AM
OUTTA HERE!
WELL DONE,
PONDER-O.
S0–DID MY
PERSONALITY TRANSFER
OK? THAT’LL BE ONE
BOLD AND BRILLIANT
MACHINE, READY TO
SOLVE ALL THE PROBLEMS
OF THE WORLD!
WELL, SO FAR IT’S
CREATED ONE AND
SOLVED ONE.
WHEW!
CARE FOR
A BREATH
MINT?
MEWY-PEW!
46
P
27
L
25
I
P
G
E
O
L
L
F
20
N
A
8
F
1
E
H
O
W
L
C
C
G
I
R
G
N
19
11
6
U
B
R
T
24
E
A
S
T
17
P
P
12
13
R
A
E
Y
9
A
S
23
E
T
A
16
A
E
22
E
I
S
E
A
26
15
S
E
R
21
U
O
T
E
18
7
S
O
M
14
N
O
E
L
28
A
10
G
I
29
A
S
N
U
G
P
H
A
N
G
L
L
I
L
I
2
C
N
3
H
30
4
L
C
I
K
5
F
31
29
28
27
Acknowledgments continued from inside front cover
25
26
Grateful acknowledgment is given to the following publishers and copyright
owners for permission to reprint selections from their publications. All
possible care has been taken to trace ownership and secure permission for
each selection.
“Two Amazing Tales of Memory” text © 2006 by Valerie Rodgers, art © 2006
by David Povilaitis.
“King of Beggars” art © 2006 by Luthando Mazibuko.
Photo acknowledgments: 5-10 (BG) Thitima/Shutterstock.com; 16-21 (BG)
Picsfive/Shutterstock.com; 22 (CC) artgirl/Shutterstock.com; 23 (TC) Neti.
OneLove/Shutterstock.com; 28 (BG) R.C. Bennett/Shutterstock.com; 29 (BC)
StevenRussellSmithPhotos/Shutterstock.com; 29 (border) Kristina Birukova/
Shutterstock.com; 30 (LT) Andaman/Shutterstock.com; 30 (RT) Thomas
Morris/Shutterstock.com; 30 (RB) IrinaK/Shutterstock.com; 31 (BG) Elzza/
Shutterstock.com; 32-37 (BG) one AND only/Shutterstock.com.
20
21
18
14
7
23
24
19
15
10
22
16
11
12
17
13
8
9
6
1
2
3
4
5
4. Only one entry per person, please.
5. If you want your work returned, enclose a self-addressed,
stamped envelope for each entry.
6. Your entry must be received by May 25, 2018.
7. Send entries to Cricket League, P.O. Box 300, Peru, IL
61354. (No faxes or email submissions, please!)
8. We will publish winning entries in the October 2018 issue
and on the Cricket website.
E
W
L
Contest Rules
1. Your contest entry must be your very own original work.
Ideas and words should not be copied.
2. Your entry must be signed by your parent or guardian,
stating that it is your own work, that no help was given,
and that Cricket has permission to publish it in the magazine and on our website.
3. Be sure to include your name, age, and full address on
your entry.
R
O
This Cricket is aflutter with birds—musical starlings, pretty peacocks, acrobatic hummingbirds, and perky pigeons. Although our bugs avoid birds when they can, Tater convinced
everybuggy that, from a scientific point of view, birds are really smart and interesting, and
wonderfully adapted to environments from the tropics to Antarctica. So, for this month’s
contest, everybuggy wants to see your best poem about a bird or birds. Tater even suggested that Ugly could be guest judge! (Does spelling count?)
Perhaps you will be inspired by the birds you see flitting about your backyard this
spring, or by the birdsongs and calls you hear early in the morning. Maybe your verse will
capture what it is like to be a bird in flight, or to watch a migrating flock fly overhead. You
might focus on a proud eagle diving on its prey, or on how birds build their nests and care
for their young, or on birds that live in harsh or unusual climates. You might even write
about birds of legend and lore, or species that are now extinct.
Whether your poem is about your pet parakeet, a medieval hunting falcon, or a parrot that talks too much, everybuggy will be cowering beneath the Cricket Country mailbox,
waiting for Judge Ugly to arrive in a flap and rip open your best poem—of 24 lines or less,
please—about a bird or birds. Awkiee grawkee furst priz!
R
R
C
31
N E W P O E T RY CO N T E S T: B I R DS
K
My soft, sweet friend
Saying goodbye is the hardest part of the day
C
We trudge back to the pasture
I bury my face in your strong, thick neck
Solution to Crossbird Puzzle
R
A dash back to the stable, dodging raindrops
Soft whiskers search my pocket for treats
O
A smooth canter around the ring
You will always keep me safe
To s e e m o r e w i n n i n g C r i c ke t L e a g u e
e n t r i e s , v i s i t o u r we b s i t e :
c r i c ke t m a g k i d s . c o m /c o n t e s t s
L
Your friends whinny you a goodbye
Then huddle together in their shed
A star-spangled sky
above a field of clover
Springtime Filly lifts her head
Slowly
Slowly
Out come the front legs,
Wobbling
Wobbling
She stands triumphantly
for a few brief seconds
Then
Tumbles
Tumbles
Mama licks her small gray head,
the proud new dam of a
Tiny
Tiny
Springtime Filly
F
Springtime Filly
A gentle breath on my shoulder
Keeps me warm as we walk through
the muddy, sloppy pasture
30
The Horse
Honorable Mention
Toryn Cianci, age 7, Walpole, MA
Kianna Larsson, age 10, Foster City, CA
Angeline Weaver, age 15, Mifflinburg, PA
T
Third prize 11 and up
Lydia Hessel-Robinson, age 11
Elkins Park, PA
O
Third prize 11 and up
Lydia Hammill, age 11
Delaware Township, NJ
CRICKET magazine (ISSN 0090-6034) is published 9 times a year, monthly
except for combined May/June, July/August, and November/December issues,
by Cricket Media, 70 East Lake Street, Suite 800, Chicago, IL 60601. Additional
Editorial Office located at 1751 Pinnacle Drive, Suite 600, McLean, VA 22102.
Periodicals postage paid at McLean, VA, and at additional mailing offices. For
address changes, back issues, subscriptions, customer service, or to renew,
please visit shop.cricketmedia.com, email cricketmedia@cdsfulfillment.com,
write to CRICKET, P.O. Box 6395, Harlan, IA 51593-1895, or call 1-800-821-0115.
POSTMASTER: Please send address changes to CRICKET, P.O. Box 6395, Harlan,
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From time to time, CRICKET mails to its subscribers advertisements for other
Cricket Media products or makes its subscriber list available to other reputable companies for their offering of products and services. If you prefer not to
receive such mail, write to us at CRICKET, P.O. Box 6395, Harlan, IA 51593-1895.
Printed in the United States of America.
1st Printing Quad/Graphics
Midland, Michigan April 2018
47
W E A L L A D M I R E beautiful birds, their bright feathers and
lovely songs. But there’s a bird we may see so often we hardly notice it:
Columbiformes. Rock doves. Or, in other words, plain ordinary pigeons.
Well, they aren’t always plain. You’ll find some pretty spectacular types:
fantails, pouters, acrobatic rollers and tumblers, racing pigeons, homing
pigeons among the hundred and fifty different breeds.
The pigeons pecking around in parks and backyards or sitting on
statues are simply busy being pigeons. But they have a long, proud history.
Ancient Persians and Greeks, for example, used them to carry military
messages or the names of Olympic winners. In World War I, carrier
pigeons received medals for heroism. Champion racing pigeons have flown
a course of nearly seven hundred miles at an average speed of more than
eighty miles per hour. Pigeon raisers dearly love and value their birds. A
British hobbyist once paid $24,000 for just one bird. As a tourist attraction, the world’s most famous pigeons are Italian—the flock of thousands
in St. Mark’s Square, Venice.
When most other birds drink water, they have to raise their beaks at
every sip. Pigeons don’t. They’re able to pump up liquid in much the same
way as horses. Baby pigeons, called squabs, feed on pigeon’s milk, a white,
nutritious substance that both parents produce in their gullets, or throats.
Did I call pigeons ordinary? No, indeed, they’re quite extraordinary.
As a matter of fact, so is everything if we take time to look closely.
Pigeons—and people, too.
48
Can a panda
be polite?
Ethics for Pandas
ASK YOURSELF these important questions:
1. Am I hungry? (YES)
2. Am I a panda? (YES)
3. Is this bamboo? (YUM)
4. Is this my bamboo? (NO IDEA)
This is not an ethical problem.
The answer is: eat the bamboo.
ages
Are you ready fo r
MUSE Magazine?
Subscribe at
9–14
Shop.CricketMedia.com/Try-Muse
text © 2016 by Nancy Kangas • art by Greg Kletsel
MUSE® Magazine asks
May/June 2018
Volume 45
Number 8
cricketmedia.com
$6.95
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