Reading Passages
Contents
Back to School by Doug Smith 3
Paper by Marcel G. Gagni 8
Students Get the Message by Maria Lockwood 16
Duncan's Way by Ian Wallace 18
Rats: The Folklore and the Facts by John Russell 25
Papa's Parrot by Cynthia Rylant 30
Ice Capades in Antarctica by Rachel Bakker 34
Stray by Cynthia Rylant 39
The Polar Bear Express 43
A Wish Named Arnold by Charles de Lint 48
"I'm seeing a lot of things I never thought I would."
Back to
School
by Doug Smith
It was a gorgeous late spring afternoon on the pretty, tree-lined campus of the University
of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. The meeting place bounded by the student union, a
bookstore, a dining hall and the undergraduate library were all bustling with activity.
In the middle of it all, completely anonymous to the hundreds who parade across
campus, there was a guy who looked like any other typical student. He had the dress-sunglasses, shorts, T-shirt, sneakers and a cap worn backward; and he had the books,
backpack and homework assignments.
But he was far from the typical college student picking up a couple of extra credits in
the first summer semester. It was Vince Carter, NBA All-Star, sports hero to millions and
one of the last guys one would expect to be filling five hours a day with biology classes
and labs.
The 23-year-old superstar, just like other students, was taking abreak from classes
and labs that kept him busy for eight weeks as he pursued a degree in African-American
studies during the summer of 2000.
Superstar slam dunker at night, student by day--Vince Carter does it all
"I come here because it's quiet, I feel comfortable here, and it's a bonus that you can
just come to school and be yourself," he said. "I'm just like any other North Carolina
student and it's fun."
The fact that he spent a good chunk of his off-season studying speaks volumes about
the well-rounded nature of Carter's personality and his commitment to finishing
something that he started.
Carter completed his degree to honour a promise he made to his mom. When he first
accepted a scholarship to North Carolina, he signed a contract with his room promising
that he'd get his degree.
After three years as a Tar Heel, Carter's basketball abilities had become too great for
the college game, and if he was going to continue to be challenged athletically, it would
have to be at the professional level. But he knew that after he left college there would
have to be other things in his life besides basketball.
That's one thing that his mom always wanted, too. For an off-season that's always
crammed with camps, endorsement obligations and, in 2000 at least, the Olympics,
Michelle Carter- Robinson feels her son needs to take time to just live a little.
"These kids all want to be adults and get out into the real world so fast, sometimes
that's not all it's cracked up to be," she said. "I think Vince should just go back to class
and be a regular kid; there will be all the time in the world for the rest of that stuff."
Carter didn't return to school just to keep the promise he had made to his mom. He
found he actually liked the idea of getting his college degree. He spent the off-season
between his rookie and second NBA seasons taking classes, and after the summer of
2000, he finally had enough credits to graduate. He knew he would feel a huge sense of
accomplishment putting on the cap and gown for the graduation ceremony.
"I'm here for me," he said after he went back to school. "I promised my mom I'd do
it, but now it's something I want to do. I'm excited about it."
Going back to school also gave him a chance to be a regular guy, and Carter
appreciated the privacy.
"I think I've only signed two autographs since I got here," he said while at North
Carolina for summer classes. "I think people think, hey, I'm here trying to graduate and I
think maybe they see it as a positive thing. A couple of people in class were telling me to
keep studying, giving me an idea of What the class was like. It's nice to be a little bit
normal."
Trying to be normal was one big reason Carter decided to take summer classes. He
gets enough of the royal treatment every day of the NBA season and went back to school
when there would be fewer students on campus. "
The first day, everyone was, like, 'There's Vince, there's Vince,'" said Joe Giddens,
who is still Carter's best friend and joined Vince at UNC to give his buddy a close friend
to hang around with. "I think even the teacher was excited. But we just sat in the back
and no one bothered us."
Vince went back to school between his rookie and sophomore seasons so that
he could experience being a "regular guy" again.
Carter also decided to go back to school so he could provide a true, firsthand
message when he talks to teenagers. In the speeches he gives at public appearances
during the basketball season, Carter likes to point out the need for a good education, and
now his audience can see that he practices what he preaches.
"I talk to a lot of kids and that's one message I'm most proud of," he said. "I can tell
them how important school is, and then they see me going back to get my degree. For me
to do it is important. In middle school or in high school, you don't think about school too
much, or a degree. This is a way of showing them how important it is to me. And when
I'm done playing basketball, I'll have a degree maybe I can use." Although he doesn't
intend to give up basketball for a teaching career or anything else, he said the most
important aspect of getting his degree was the sense of accomplishment it brought.
Although he was a busy student, Carter always found time to get into the gym a
couple of nights each week to scrimmage with the members of the university's team who
stuck around for summer school, along with the other NBA players who would drop by.
But more than anything, classes provide an interesting change from his usual NBA
life. For example, in one of his courses he had a biology lab that studied insects and
butterflies, then a couple of weeks later he took part in the dissection of a pig. Those are
not things many NBA players are familiar with. "You might see anything in those
classes," he said. "I'm seeing a lot of things I never thought I would."
The Future Calls
So where does Vince Carter go from here? How good can he become? How much more
popular can he get? As Knicks coach Jeff Van Gundy said, Carter has the chance to be
one of the best players in the long history of the NBA if he dedicates himself to continued
improvement. But it's not as if Carter needs someone to tell him that. He knows better
than anyone that nothing good comes from resting on past success. If you don't get better,
you get left behind. And there's always someone on the horizon to challenge you.
As he scrambled upwards, the beast behind him,
Danid felt his leg being jerked back.
Paper.
by Marcel G. Gagne.
Fascinated, Daniel followed his grandmother's old fingers while they deftly wove magic
in their mathematical dance. Wrinkled folds of skin, draped almost casually over her old
bones, moved in ways that mocked his young, but clumsy, fingers. Every motion was
elegant choreography, each fold an artful rendition of an exact science. Two days of
insistence had finally convinced her to share her secrets. This was the initiation. Her price
was his rapt attention.
Displays of her handiwork were everywhere. A veritable menagerie of birds, fish,
flowers, and even entire scenes spread throughout the house. One shelf displayed a
barnyard diorama complete with pigs, horses, chickens, and a farmer watching over them
all. On another shelf, she had gathered a full orchestra. Before the assembled musicians,
the black-clad conductor stood on a podium, his baton held high. Other objects were
strictly decorative: strange boxes and shapes of various colours. She, herself, wore a pair
of earrings from which dangled two identical deep-purple birds.
This week of forced confinement with his grandmother was turning out to be
interesting after all. Daniel could almost forgive his parents for abandoning him while
they took a holiday on their own.
The paper opened briefly and collapsed again under her fingers as she worked the
crease to a point that had not existed before. "That's called a petal fold," she said. "This
point could just as easily be one of the bird's wings as its head and tail. In a more difficult
design, it could become the head and tail of a dinosaur."
A smile of wonder crossed Daniel's lips. "Yeah!" he breathed. The lumbering crash
of a great beast sounded in his imagination, the mental camera panning up and down to
catch the terrible gaze of the prehistoric monster. Heart-pounding background music
accompanied its ear-splitting roar.
"Will you do the dinosaur, Grandma? Please."
"That's a little bit harder than what we're working on here. You have to walk before
you can run," she said.
His smile turned to a frown. "Aw, c'mon, Lorraine!" he ventured.
Lorraine put the model down and pierced Daniel's eyes with her own.
"What did you call me?" The old woman held a great deal of power in those eyes. Daniel
shrank beneath the steady gaze.
"That's what Dad calls you," he explained.
“Your father is thirty years older than you are. When you get to be forty, then you
can call me Lorraine, but right this minute, I am Grandma to you. Understand?"
Daniel nodded wordlessly.
"Now, where were we?" She carefully picked up the paper model.
"We were going to build a dinosaur," Daniel attempted.
She gave a small laugh. "Nice try, but first things first. This particular fold will
become the classic Japanese crane."
"But a bird is so boring. A dinosaur at least looks like it could do something."
"Birds look like they can fly. That's something, too. Let's finish this and then you
can tell me if it was boring. Until then, observe."
She finished one side, turned the model over and stopped halfway through what she
called a kite fold. She looked at him and smiled. "you try it."
Daniel shook his head, an uncertain smile crossing his lips. "No, I couldn't do it
like you do."
She took his hands and directed them to the folded paper. "Yes, you can. Just
follow the pictures in the book," she said, tapping the open volume on the table before
her. The book was at least three inches thick and contained thousands of step-by-step
diagrams of hundreds of paper creations. Daniel ran his fingers over the paper. The
multicoloured sheet had a clothlike texture. He smiled, and looked up. "It feels neat.
“A friend who taught me, as I am teaching you, sent them to me." She touched
the package and a faraway look entered her eyes. “ These are special papers. Very
special.”
“What makes them so special?"
She reached out to touch his chest with her index finger. "They echo whatever is
in your heart. That is why your heart must be filled only with good thoughts and beautiful
things. Honi soit qui mal y pense." The finger moved to his head. "Remember that."
Daniel looked puzzled. "Remember what?"
"Evil be to him who evil thinks. King Edward third of England said that a long
time ago when he felt a lady in his court was being insulted.
" With a shrug of his shoulders Daniel let the quiet wisdom slip away. He played
with the paper, looking back and forth between it and the pictures in the book, then
pushed it away with a sigh.
"You better do it, Grandma. I'll try after you finish this one."
With a disappointed shake of her head, she quickly finished the last folds. The
head and tail came down, then a squash fold of the centre point held the wings in place.
"There." She held the bird up to the boy's eyes and turned it over in her hands.
"Neat!
" Grandma smiled. "See how easy it is? Like magic."
In a blur of sight and sound, the paper bird in her hands was transformed into a brightly
coloured beating of real wings that quickly took to the air. The bird grew larger and
larger as it rose to the cathedral ceiling, whereupon it disappeared as though it had simply
passed through an open window.
"Grandma!" the boy shouted. "How did you do that?"
She laid the book down in front of him and passed him a package of square
papers of various flat colours. "Everything you need to know is there. Just .... follow the
steps... She waved a hand over the line drawings, "... and you'll make your own bird just
as I did."
“Will it fly like yours did?"
She gave him a quizzical look. "Fly? Humph. Only in your imagination..."
She paused, "... which is more than enough." She rose to her feet and started to turn
away. "I've got things to do now. Practice that one just as I showed you, then we'll work
on something more complicated."
"But it flew away! You saw it!" he protested.
"I did?" She smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I'll check your work later.”
She turned and headed up the stairs, taking her cloth paper sheets with her.
Daniel's first attempts were disastrous. The results of his effort resembled badly folded
road maps and not graceful birds, but he was determined to achieve the magic he had
witnessed with his own eyes. After two and a half hours of folding and throwing away
failed experiments, he managed a respectable imitation of his grandmother's crane.
He tossed the bird into the air and watched it tumble ignominiously back to the floor,
never having beat a single wing, not even in Daniel's imagination. He picked up the
bright pink creation and repeated the experiment. Again it failed. He looked closely at the
model. It was pretty shabby. He sighed and began again.
When he finished there were seven birds arrayed on the table. The last, a black
bird, was a masterpiece of sharp lines and perfect detail. Proudly holding up the model,
he tossed it into the air--and watched it tumble to the ground, just like the others.
He scowled and stared, grimly determined to figure out what the difference was
between his creation and his grandmother's. He had followed the instructions step-bystep, and his black beauty was perfect in every detail.
He left the rainbow flock lined up on the table and went to fetch his grandmother.
It was time to ask her why his bird wouldn't fly. Besides, he needed her to tell him how
well he'd done.
He could see through the double glass doors that she was in her back garden,
planting some purple flowers. His hand was on the door when his memory filled in the
missing piece of the puzzle. The cloth papers! Quickly, quietly, he stepped back from the
door and ran upstairs to Grandma's room.
The tension was almost more than he could bear. The package of cloth paper was
not sitting out in full view as he had hoped. He had searched through all but two of her
dresser drawers before he located it hidden under a liner that smelled of roses.
His heart was racing by the time he had completed the bird base. "From here," he recited
silently, 'you can make a bird or a...
" Yes. Excitement replaced his guilty panic. He picked up the book and searched
the pages for the right diagram. There were several dinosaurs, but they were small and
insignificant. He turned one last page. There it was, standing on its hind legs with two
little arms up in front. A real dinosaur! He couldn't pronounce its name. He would have
preferred a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but this looked enough like one. The others reminded
him more of lizards than the terrible beasts of his imagination. Real dinosaurs were
fierce, frightening creatures that tore through flesh with razor-sharp teeth. The others
were just vegetarians.
"Begin with a bird base," the instructions read. He had a bird base. He was ready.
Each fold that followed was increasingly difficult but, with a perseverance born of
a real goal, he pushed on, doing and redoing folds as needed. This project was a whole lot
more interesting than a stupid bird.
When, at last, he sat the finished figure proudly in front of him, it took only the
sound of the table Cracking under its rapidly increasing weight for him to understand that
he had made a terrible mistake.
By the time the creature stood at what he could only hope was its final height, Daniel was
running for the stairs up to the bedrooms. Nearly ten feet tall and full of primal fury, the
young dinosaur was everything he had hoped for. And he remembered it was a carnivore.
Maybe it's not hungry, he told himself weakly.
The beast snarled and growled as it sensed his presence. The tail swung about and
collapsed what remained of the table, sending the chairs crashing across the room.
From the stairs, Daniel could see his grandmother running back towards the house.
The crash of table and chairs had not gone unheard. As he scrambled upwards, the beast
behind him, Daniel felt his leg being jerked back. He screamed and looked over his
shoulder. The deadly teeth had pierced his jeans. The monster bashed his leg repeatedly
against the stairs, shaking its head furiously in an effort to get rid of the fabric caught in
its teeth. Daniel screamed again, this time in pain. Then his jeans tore and his leg was
free. He scrambled out of reach of the vicious teeth just as his grandmother entered the
room.
“What in the world is going on here?" she gasped.
She was answered with a growl.
"My God, Daniel! What have you done?"
At the sound of her voice, the dinosaur turned its leathery head with lightning
speed to face her. For a moment Daniel was forgotten.
She moved back slowly, calculating her odds of beating the dinosaur to the back
door.
Daniel suddenly realized exactly what he had done. She's going to be eaten, he
thought. And it's my fault.
He tore off his shoe and threw it at the beast's head. The creature stopped
suddenly, momentarily confused, then looked up towards the source of the missile.
"No!" Grandma shouted. "Daniel, don't!"
Daniel wasn't listening. He hurled his second shoe. This time the animal swung
around fully, its tail catching the old woman and sending her crashing among the debris
of her dining-room furniture. \ She lay motionless, while the monster turned its attention
back to the boy. This time Daniel didn't run. He sat at the top of the stairs, looking in
horror at his grandmother, motionless on the floor below.
The dinosaur moved slowly. Its prey wasn't running away. Size and strength were
obviously on its side, but it seemed suddenly wary. Daniel crouched on the stairs, waiting
for the end. Perhaps his grandmother would forgive him when she saw him again in
heaven. But then panic washed over him. Heaven? He'd been really bad, hadn't he?
Likely, he would wind up in a very different place than she would.
Something stirred from within the debris.
"Daniel.
" The boy turned, startled. Confused, the beast also turned towards the sound.
Grandma was fumbling with her earrings, taking off each one in turn. She
carefully tore the hooks from the backs of the twin birds and threw both into the air.
Upon leaving her hand, the birds breathed life and took on an olive-brown colour. By the
time they had reached the dinosaur and began screaming and tearing at the animal's eyes
and face, they had grown nearly a foot in length.
A great roar shook the house as the deadly carnivore tried to shake off its attackers.
Grandma rose painfully to her feet and carefully approached the screaming, thrashing
beast. Her hands wove mysteriously over the animal's skin and, seconds later, she was
holding a harmless model of the dinosaur. The birds, a pair of mourning doves, alighted
on the banister and stayed there, cooing softly. Meanwhile, she quickly and deftly
unfolded Daniel's creation.
"You did good work, Daniel, but I told you to work on birds, not dinosaurs.
Furthermore, you did not use the paper I gave you and, worst of all, you went snooping in
my room."
Daniel began to cry. "I'm sorry, Grandma. I almost got you killed." "Not to
mention yourself." She was surprisingly calm. "You forgot the king's lesson, and you did
not follow mine. I warned you that your heart must be filled with good thoughts."
She walked over to where the boy still sat on the steps and bent down to hug him.
She didn't seem old or frail anymore.
"I really am sorry," he sobbed.
''Yes, I'm sure you are. The question now is, how will you pay for the damage you
have caused and the trouble you've made for me?"
"I'll work," he said through tears. "I'll get a job and..." His plans for repayment
were lost in a flood of tears.
"Oh, stop this nonsense," Grandma said briskly. She got to her feet, picked her
way through the debris of her former dining room and retrieved the origami book from
the rubble. When she returned, she flipped quickly through the pages until she found
what she was looking for. "I still have some gardening to do out there, and you have a
mess to clean up. Once you've got this room back in order, I want you to work on these."
She pointed to the diagrams on the page.
Daniel sniffed and wiped his eyes. The words he read forced him to look around
the house once more and wonder.
"Table and six chairs," the heading read.
Duncan couldn't imagine giving up the sea for flat fields of grain, city skyscrapers, or
snow-covered tundra.
DUNCAN'S Way
by Ian Wallace
This is another family story. It's set in Newfoundland, a place that more people leave
than ever come to stay. Duncan's family has lived there forever.. If you've been lucky
enough to visit that fabled island, then perhaps you'll understand why leaving is the very
last thing a native Newfoundlander would ever want to do. It certainly isn't what Duncan
wants, and so he sets out to do something about it.
Ian Wallace is best known as a fine illustrator of picture books. Duncan's Way may
be his very best picture book yet. But the text of the story is so poignant that I think it
stands on its own.
For seven generations the men of Duncan's family fished in broad wooden boats off the
coast of Newfoundland. Painted the colours of sealskin, fresh cream or lupins in June, the
longliners were christened with the names of the women whom the fishermen loved. But
the boats no longer returned with their holds laden. The days of plenty were over. The
cod had disappeared from the ocean's depths, and with them went a way of life.
Duncan and his father stood watching a lone kittiwake circle the abandoned fishing
stages that dotted the shore.
"C'mon, Dad," he said. "Let's go do something. Anything."
There was no reply. In the eighteen months that his father had been out of work,
Duncan often found him just staring at the sea.
"Didya hear me, Dad?"
"Yeah, sorry. Not now. Maybe later."
"Yeah. Like maybe January when the snow's flying around our ears."
Duncan stormed from the yard, past the empty homes of friends and neighbours
who had packed up and moved away. Beyond the windswept church, he stopped where
the cemetery rolled to the sea. He came here whenever he needed to sort things out. He
wasn't afraid to be among the graves.
He crouched low, his fingers tracing the chiselled letters on his great- grandfather's
headstone. Then he took a harmonica from his pocket and played an old fishing song.
His dad hadn't always been silent and sad. Mostly Duncan remembered him
whistling and singing and joking and teasing. But that was before the foreign factory
ships had sucked the cod from the ocean. Or the seals had swallowed them up. Or men
like his father had overfished the stocks. Or whatever reason you believed about why the
fish were gone.
He confronted the North Atlantic. "My dad was born to the sea. Like his father
and all the fathers before him." He smacked the harmonica against the palm of his hand.
"I'm gonna get him back there!"
When he returned home his dad was sitting on the sofa, watching a game show on
TV. Some guy had just won a huge jackpot and was going wild. Duncan could tell his
father was envious.
Without warning, Luke, his brother, snuck up behind him.
"Go out for a little one-on-one, dipstick?" he whispered, and bounced a basketball
off Duncan's back.
"You're not the boss of me!" He jabbed his brother hard in the ribs.
Luke laughed. "Ooh, tough guy!" The ball whizzed by Duncan's ear. It hit the far
wall with a solid smack, dropped to the floor and bounced around the room. Their father
didn't look away from the TV. He just put another handful of popcorn into his mouth.
His mother came through the back door from her job at the grocery store.
"Oh, do these little piggies ache," she said, kicking off her shoes. She gave Duncan
a hug. "And how is my little fella?"
Duncan groaned. "I'm not your little fella, Mom. I'm eleven and a half." He started
to pull away.
She kissed the top of his head. "You'll always be my little fella."
While his mother fixed supper, Duncan set the table.
"I was thinking about Dad," he told her. "About how he needs to get back to the
sea."
"That won't happen for a long time, my son. Nobody knows when there'll be
enough cod to fish again." She flipped thick slices of bologna in the sputtering pan.
"But he does nothing except watch TV or stand at the side of the road talking to
his buddies." His mother's body tensed. Duncan's eyes scanned the six loaves of bread on
the counter. The four partridgeberry pies. And the plate of tea buns. "And bake."
"Baking is hard work, too!" she snapped, and turned off the stove. "Supper's
ready."
When the dishes were done, Duncan and his mother and brother went up the
shore. The largest iceberg they could remember had floated into the bay and grounded. It
sat so naturally there, shimmering in the darkening water, that Duncan hoped it would
never melt away. In the quiet, his mother spoke.
"You were right, Duncan. We need to get your father back to work. Lord knows
I've tried to think of every possible way. So's he." She looked out at the iceberg. Tears
welled in her eyes. "Your dad and I have decided to leave Newfoundland."
The words were finally out. The ones Duncan had been dreading. The same
words that many of his friends had heard before their families packed up and left the
province. "There's no future for us here," they'd said.
Duncan tried to speak. To his surprise, words wouldn't come. He turned to Luke
for help, but his brother looked like a guy who'd had the wind knocked out of him.
"We can begin again in another part of Canada," she said. "Just like your friends."
Duncan couldn't imagine giving up the sea for flat fields of grain, city
skyscrapers, or snow-covered tundra. And he couldn't imagine his father doing it, either.
"Lots of people are finding ways to stay," Luke blurted. "Bud Penney turned his
garage into a video store."
"And lots haven't," she replied sadly.
Duncan regained his voice. ''We can't leave. We've lived here forever."
''We don't have much choice. Time and money are running out."
Duncan slept fitfully that night. His stomach began churning when he thought of
moving away. But mostly he thought about his father's boat and the boats of all the cod
fishermen sitting idle at the wharves. He imagined countless others in outports strung
along the coast like knots on a fishing line. All of them sat idle, too.
Early the next morning Duncan untied a dory from its mooring and, starting the
motor, set out across the bay. The cold saltwater was rough beneath the boat, swelling
and splashing over the hull, clean across his face.
Finally he reached the far side.
He arrived at the home of Mr. Marshall. Over several summers he and the
retired fisherman had jigged for cod and played their harmonicas together. Duncan found
him in the basement working on his model trains, one of them a replica of the Newfie
Bullet, which no longer existed.
Duncan watched with delight as two trains sped through vast forests before
scaling cliffs that snaked along the coastline.
Mr. Marshall gave him a turn at the controls. With the blast of an air horn the
locomotives slowly gathered steam. Everything Duncan had been thinking about for the
past eighteen months spilled out of him like a dam bursting.
"The disappearance of the cod is affecting us all," Mr. Marshall said when
Duncan stopped talking. "I don't know that you or I or anyone can get your dad back to
sea."
Mr. Marshall got down from his stool. He motioned Duncan to follow. They
circled the miniature landscape. Then suddenly Mr. Marshall hit the ocean with his fist,
picked up a tiny wooden boat and tossed it to Duncan, who caught it on the fly.
"What is a boat, if not for fishing?" he asked.
Duncan turned the boat in his fingers. "It's a way to get from place to place. Or a
way of taking things to people. Or people to things."
"Darn right," said Mr. Marshall, and he thumped his fist on the ocean a second
time. The trains sped past, heading in opposite directions. A steam whistle blew. "So,
boy, if there aren't any cod to fish, what do people need that your dad can take to them by
boat?"
That was the toughest question Mr. Marshall had ever asked him. Duncan was
lost for an answer.
"I told you, my dad does nothing except watch TV or talk to his buddies." Mr.
Marshall looked disappointed, Duncan's face flushed red with embarrassment. "And bake
things we love to eat. Mom says he's the best baker in the province.
" Mr. Marshall nodded. "So...?"
Duncan didn't know what to say. A harmonica began to play in his head. Then
he head Luke's voice: "Lots of people are finding ways to stay." The trains slowed to a
halt.
Mr. Marshall moved along the coast. He unloaded baggage and parcels,
mailbags and lumber from the boxcars at two outports. His face bore the same contented
look that Duncan's father got when he was baking.
"If a garage can be a video store," Duncan began slowly, "can a boat be..." He
set the tiny fishing boat back in the ocean. "A bakery?"
Mr. Marshall smiled. "Possibly."
As he headed home the wind off the North Atlantic stilled. The waters of the bay
became calmer. And Duncan's plan became clearer. Excitedly he revved the motor and
swung wide around the iceberg.
His family was sitting at the kitchen table when he raced through the door. He
brought a map from his bedroom. He traced the coastline, stopping at each outport.
Slowly, thoughtfully, Duncan revealed his plan. He saw his brother's eyes brighten.
"We could stop at a different place every day," he told them.
"A bakery boat?" His mother tried out the words.
"There's bound to be at least one folk festival up the shore this summer," Luke
offered. "And think of all the family reunions. That crowd from the mainland sure would
be hungry.”
Duncan leaned closer to his father. "If you bake it, Dad, we'll sell it from the
docks."
The boys were silent, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
"A bakery boat, John?" his mother said.
"It's not a bad idea," he said finally. "Maybe we'll have to give it a try. See if we
can make a go of it." He gave Duncan a wink. He looked out the window. "By sea."
In the days that followed, Duncan's family visited every outport along the eastern
shore to plot a baker's route. They went to the bank, where they took out the last of their
savings and secured a loan to turn his father's boat into a floating bakery. They outfitted it
with a secondhand oven and stove, a refrigerator and freezer, and all the gadgets and
utensils that a baker would need. They painted the longliner from bow to stern the colours
of a buttercup, and changed its name from Barbara's Pride to Duncan's Way.
Duncan painted a large sign in bold letters that said BREAD 'N' BUNS BY
BOAT.
One clear July morning, they got out of bed when fishermen normally rise. Their
family and friends saw them off. They set sail with a light wind at their backs. Duncan's
mother was at the wheel, guiding them down the rocky coast. Duncan and Luke helped
their father knead dough for bread and buns, mix batter for cakes and roll pastry for pies.
"We'll make a great team, boys," their father said as he put the first loaves into the
oven. Duncan played an old fishing song on his harmonica. His family sang boisterously
along. And they joked and teased one another just like they did in the days before the cod
went away.
The rat is one of those creatures we love to hate.
Rates:
The Folklore and the Facts
by John Russell
Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in their cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles.
From "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"
by Robert Browning
In his famous poem about the Pied Piper legend, Robert Browning paints a chilling
picture of a town infested with evil, vicious rats. It is a common way of portraying these
rodents, and one that most people would agree with. The rat is one of those creatures we
love to hate.
It's an odd fact that some animals can terrify us with their ferocity and strength, yet
we still admire and respect them. The lion is a good example. People have always
thought of this killer cat as proud, brave, and beautiful. In fact, we have dubbed the male
lion "King of Beasts."
But there are other animals and insects, such as snakes, spiders, and bats, that have
always made people shudder at the very mention of their names. The poor rat is one of
these--an outcast, hunted and despised by human beings throughout history.
It is becoming clear that some of the animals people loathe have been treated
unfairly. The wolf is an example. Since the publication of Farley Mowat's book, Never
Cry Wolf, many people have slowly changed their attitudes. They no longer hasten to
brand the wolf as a senseless killer. And as for bats, scientists have confirmed that they
do far more good in our world than harm, by eating millions of mosquitoes and other
insect pests. (It's only in movies that a bat can turn into Count Dracula at midnight.)
So, what about the rat? Does he deserve his horrible reputation? Let's look at some
facts about rats, and you can make up your own mind.
Migration
There is no question that rats have been a menace to health and property since they
arrived in Europe in the eleventh century, brought back as uninvited guests on ships from
the Orient. The first rats in Europe were confined to ships and dockyards, but they
quickly spread to cities and then to the countryside in search of food. The rat's migration
to North America came with the arrival of the first settlers' ships in the 1600s. Naturally,
the hairy rodents soon began travelling west across our continent with wagon trains. In
fact, nowadays rats are found all over the world, and there are at least as many of them as
there are of us on the planet.
Rats Spread Disease.
Almost as soon as rats arrived in Europe they started causing trouble, mostly by
spreading disease, including rabies, jaundice, and typhus. But the most dreadful of all the
communicable diseases they spread was the bubonic plague. This plague was a terrible
affliction that often caused death just twelve hours after the first symptoms appeared. In
the 1300s, the bubonic plague came to be known in Europe as the Black Death; in one
notable four- year period it killed 25 000 000 people, one quarter of the entire European
population. The plague terrorized Europe, on and off, for the next three centuries. Indeed,
the Great Plague of 1664-65 in London, England was finally brought under control only
when most of the city was destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666.
It was not until much later that rats were linked to the spread of the dreaded
plague, when it was discovered that fleas were the actual carriers of the plague virus. This
fact was coupled with the knowledge that all trapped rats were infested with fleas. In
short order the rats spread the disease-carrying insects to homes and farms, leaving them
behind to infect the human inhabitants.
Today, the bubonic plague has been wiped out by modern science. Nevertheless,
it has been estimated that by spreading the plague rats have been responsible for more
human deaths than have all the wars in history.
A Menace
The tale of rats' destructiveness does not end with control of the plague. Rats still eat
billions of dollars' worth of stored human food each year, and they spoil ten times more
than they eat. A single rat, for example, can eat 25-30 kg of grain in a year. Furthermore,
they eat fresh eggs, fruit, vegetables, and seeds. When these types of produce are not
readily available, rats will kill for food. Among their favourite victims are young
chickens, ducks and pigeons, and newborn lambs.
Human property isn't safe, either. Rats can gnaw through wood, pipes, leather,
and cloth. There are even verified stories of rats who have set fires by chewing on
matches.
Nature's Survivors
All of this evidence doesn't add up to a very attractive portrait of the rat. On the surface,
it looks as if the popular opinion of rats is justified. But is there a "rat's-eye view" of the
issue to balance the negative opinion? Is the rat forever destined to be a loathsome pest or
is it simply one of the winners in nature's survival sweepstakes?
The rat can adjust to almost any new environment in a very short time. Its
strong teeth can gnaw through the toughest material, even a lead pipe 5 cm thick. Rats are
omnivorous, which means they can eat almost anything in emergencies--including their
fellow rats! They are excellent swimmers and can stay submerged for as long as three
minutes. They are superb climbers, too, though they can jump only about 0.6 m.
Rats are natural explorers, but generally go only 60-90 m from their nests.
One reason there are so many rats is that they are fast breeders. Every six
weeks, the adult female can have a litter of two to twenty babies, averaging about eight.
Newborn rats are blind and helpless, but grow up much faster than we do. One rat year
equals thirty human years, so that a five-month-old rat is at about the same stage of
development as a thirteen-year-old boy or girl. They grow to their full size of about 23
cm in just six months.
Nature has given rats a fierce will to live, and this instinct has ensured their
survival. They have very acute senses, especially those of touch and hearing. That's one
reason you almost never see a rat out of captivity. They are afraid of humans, and can
hear you coming long before you have a chance to spot them.
Rats are loners by nature, but will band together to defend themselves if they are
threatened. There are documented accounts of rats ganging up on dogs and cats that were
foolish enough to attack them. They also migrate in hordes if they're driven from their
homes by food shortage, fire, or flood.
Rats can also be quite clever. One of the most common stories about how smart
they are describes the way they steal eggs. For hundreds of years people have claimed
that a rat will clutch an egg with all four paws, lying on its back so as not to break the egg
while two or three others haul it away by its tail. There are even stories of rats' being
lowered gently down steps and ladders by their friends, eggs and all.
As far as the rat's destructive nature is concerned, everything it does, it does to
survive. A rat doesn't know that it does harm when it eats or spoils human food or chews
up property. It is simply trying to stay alive.
For a century or more, white rats have been indispensable partners in medical and
scientific experiments. If it weren't for them we might never have found cures for
innumerable diseases. White laboratory rats have also been helpful in studies on nutrition
and in many experiments on how the mind and body work. Over all, the rat hasn't yet
saved as many lives as it's taken, but it has made a major contribution to medical science.
Two Sides to the Story
Before you come to a final judgment on rats, remember that they don't try to kill us, but
we certainly try to kill them. With traps and poison, by driving them out of their homes
and trying our best to keep them from the food they need, we harass them at every turn.
You could say we do these things to protect ourselves. But before 1900 it was a common
"sport" for men to train dogs as rat-killers. The dogs were put into pens with hundreds of
rats, and the audience placed bets on how many rats each dog could kill. Which of the
two--man or rat--was the loathsome creature in this instance? The answer is obvious.
So, as with many controversial issues, there are certainly two sides to the rat story.
If you were a rat, maybe you wouldn't think human beings were so great, either. It all
depends on your point of view.
Chills ran down Harry's back. What could the bird mean ?
Papa's Parrot
by Cynthia Rylant.
Though his father was fat and merely owned a candy and nut shop, Harry Tillian liked his
papa. Harry stopped liking candy and nuts when he was around seven, but, in spite of
this, he and Mister Tillian had remained friends and were still friends the year Harry
turned twelve.
For years, after school, Harry had always stopped in to see his father at work. Many of
Harry's friends stopped there, too, to spend a few cents choosing penny candy from the
giant bins or to sample Mister Tillian's latest batch of roasted peanuts. Mister Tillian
looked forward to seeing his son and his son's friends every day. He liked the company.
When Harry entered junior high school, though, he didn't come by the candy and nut
shop as often. Nor did his friends. They were older and they had more spending money.
They went to a burger place. They played video games. They shopped for records. None
of them were much interested in candy and nuts anymore.
A new group of children came to Mister Tillian's shop now. But not Harry Tillian
and his friends.
The year Harry turned twelve was also the year Mister Tillian got a parrot. He went
to a pet store one day and bought one for more money than he could really afford. He
brought the parrot to his shop, set its cage near the sign for maple clusters and named it
Rocky.
Harry thought this was the strangest thing his father had ever done, and he told him
so, but Mister Tillian just ignored him.
Rocky was good company for Mister Tillian. When business was slow, Mister
Tillian would turn on a small colour television he had sitting in a corner,
and he and Rocky would watch the soap operas. Rocky liked to scream when the
romantic music came on, and Mister Tillian would yell at him to shut up, but they seemed
to enjoy themselves.
The more Mister Tillian grew to like his parrot, and the more he talked to it instead
of to people, the more embarrassed Harry became. Harry would stroll past the shop, on
his way somewhere else, and he'd take a quick look inside to see what his dad was doing.
Mister Tillian was always talking to the bird. So Harry kept walking.
At home things were different. Harry and his father joked with each other at the
dinner table as they always had-- Mister Tillian teasing Harry about his smelly socks;
Harry teasing Mister Tillian about his blubbery stomach. At home things seemed all
right.
But one day, Mister Tillian became ill. He had been at work, unpacking boxes of
caramels, when he had grabbed his chest and fallen over on top of the candy. A customer
had found him, and he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance.
Mister Tillian couldn't leave the hospital. He lay in bed, tubes in his arms, and he
worried about his shop. New shipments of candy and nuts would be arriving. Rocky
would be hungry. Who would take care of things?
Harry said he would. Harry told his father that he would go to the store every day
after school and unpack boxes. He would sort out all the candy and nuts. He would even
feed Rocky.
So, the next morning, while Mister Tillian lay in his hospital bed, Harry took the
shop key to school with him. After school he left his friends and walked to the empty
shop alone. In all the days of his life, Harry had never seen the shop closed after school.
Harry didn't even remember what the CLOSED sign looked like. The key stuck in the
lock three times, and inside he had to search all the walls for the light switch.
The shop was as his father had left it. Even the caramels were still spilled on the
floor. Harry bent down and picked them up one by one, dropping them back in the boxes.
The bird in its cage watched him silently.
Harry opened the new boxes his father hadn't gotten to. Peppermints.
Jawbreakers. Toffee creams. Strawberry kisses. Harry travelled from bin to bin, putting
the candies where they belonged.
"Hello!"
Harry jumped, spilling a box of jawbreakers.
"Hello, Rocky!"
Harry stared at the parrot. He had forgotten it was there. The bird had been so
quiet, and Harry had been thinking only of the candy.
"Hello," Harry said.
"Hello, Rocky!" answered the parrot.
Harry walked slowly over to the cage. The parrot's food cup was empty. Its
water was dirty. The bottom of the cage was a mess.
Harry carried the cage into the back room.
"Hello, Rocky!"
"Is that all you can say, you dumb bird?" Harry mumbled. The bird said
nothing else.
Harry cleaned the bottom of the cage, refilled the food and water cups, then
put the cage back in its place and resumed sorting the candy.
"Where's Harry?" Harry looked up.
“Where's Harry?" Harry stared at the parrot.
"Where's Harry?"
Chills ran down Harry's back. What could the bird mean? It was like
something from "The Twilight Zone."
"Where's Harry?"
Harry swallowed and said, "I'm here. I'm here, you stupid bird."
“You stupid bird!" said the parrot.
Well, at least he's got one thing straight, thought Harry.
"Miss him! Miss him! Where's Harry? You stupid bird!"
Harry stood with a handful of peppermints.
"What ?" he asked.
"Where's Harry?" said the parrot.
"I'm here, you stupid bird! I'm here!" Harry yelled. He threw the peppermints
at the cage, and the bird screamed and clung to its perch.
Harry sobbed, "I'm here." The tears were coming.
Harry leaned over the glass counter.
"Papa." Harry buried his face in his arms.
"Where's Harry?" repeated the bird.
Harry sighed and wiped his face on his sleeve. He watched the parrot. He
understood now: someone had been saying, for a long time, "Where's Harry? Miss him."
Harry finished his unpacking, then swept the floor of the shop. He checked the
furnace so the bird wouldn't get cold. Then he left to go visit his papa.
Ice Capades
in Antarctica
by Rachel Bakker
The chance to see tobogganing penguins, sleeping seals, and curious whales in
Antarctica was a dream come true for an Ontario student.
After months of picturing the sights and sounds of Antarctica in my mind, it was hard to
believe that the day--December 16--for my real-life adventure had finally arrived.
Boarding a plane in Toronto, I flew to Miami, where I joined the rest of the
Students On Ice (SOI) group, which included students, chaperones, and scientists from
other parts of Canada, as well as from Japan, Ireland, Belgium, the United States, and the
United Kingdom. From there, we flew to Santiago, Chile, and then to Buenos Aires,
Argentina, before finally landing in Ushuaia (Ush- y-ah) at the southern tip of South
America, where our ship, captain, and crew awaited us.
All Aboard
The M/V Polar Star (left) is absolutely huge--I've never seen anything like it!
After checking into our cabins, we set sail for the Drake Passage, one of the
roughest bodies of water in the world. With waves more than nine metres high and winds
gusting up to 140 kilometres an hour, it was too dangerous to go on deck, and many of
the students got seasick.
With our sea legs under us, we continued south while wandering albatrosses
soared on air currents, dolphins dived along the bow, fin whales surfaced on the starboard
side, and a pod of killer whales investigated our bright red hull.



From Toronto, it took four plane flights and two days of sailing to travel the
more than 13,000 kilometres to Antarctica.
Every new animal adventure ashore started with an exciting ride across
the waves in the Zodiacs.
The chilly waters of the Southern Ocean are brimming with life both big
and small, from humpback whales to tiny crustaceans, like these krill.
Land Ho!
Every day we explored the Antarctic, using inflatable boats called Zodiacs to travel
between the ship and land.
In Paradise Harbour, we passed within a few metres of Weddell seals sunbathing
on sea ice. The seals ignored us as we whispered excitedly and snapped photos. But a few
killer whales got very friendly! They swam under our Zodiac, bumped the boat and
sprayed us when they spouted their blows of water.
And the penguins! The Antarctic Peninsula is the only place in the Antarctic
where Adelie gentoo, and chinstrap penguins can be seen nesting together. We even had a
chance to stand among 100,000 Adelie penguins in a huge colony (also known as a
rookery) on Paulet Island--ugh, did it smell terrible!

Following a day of foraging for krill and a rest on the pack ice, Adlie
penguins prepare to dive into the icy ocean depths and return to hungry
chicks on shore.

Like Ad61ies, gentoo penguins share parental care: while one is out
feeding, the other parent stays at the nest and keeps its chicks safe and
warm.
Portable Classroom
While sailing from place to place, we heard lectures by oceanographers, marine
biologists, mammalogists, and historians about Antarctica's food web, climate, wildlife,
and exploration. We also heard how scientists are using satellite technology to monitor
icebergs in the region.
But the best part about the SOI classroom was that we could apply what we
learned on our daily trips ashore. For example, we pulled up beside an ice floe and saw
tiny krill, which swarm by the thousands and provide food for most of Antarctica's
marine animals. And a glaciologist showed us how to take an ice-core sample from a
glacier.
Floating Snow Cones
There are so many icebergs in the , Antarctic that you might think we would get bored
seeing them, but no two are alike--some are emerald-blue and others are concrete grey or
bright white with wave patterns carved into their sides.
And what is even more amazing is that what we were seeing was only their tips,
many of which were longer and taller than our ship, because more than half of each
iceberg is underwater.
Christmas Antarctic-style.
While our friends and families at home were dreaming of a white Christmas, we were
celebrating the holiday by sledding down the glacier in Portal Point. We also swam in the
Southern Ocean and dug a hot tub on the beach of Deception Island, which is a dormant
volcano!
Leave Only Footprints...
Even with 24 hours of sunlight, the days flew by, and all too soon, we were sailing back
to South America and catching our flights for home.
Looking back, I realized how much we still have to learn about the world we live in and
how important it is to take care of the environment. Antarctica may be the driest,
windiest, coldest place on earth, but it is also one of the most fragile ecosystems in the
world, and our everyday activities, even in Canada, can affect its climate and
biodiversity.
... Bring Back Memories
I will never, ever forget my Antarctic adventure. I just wish I could have packed a
penguin in my suitcase---but then I remember that smell!


With their flippers outstretched, these chinstrap penguins look ready for
take-off, but they're actually trying to cool down!
Silver-patched Weddell seals laze around warming their flippers in the
summer sun.
"You know we can't afford a dog, Doris."
Stray
by Cynthia Rylant
In January, a puppy wandered onto the property of Mister Amos Lacey and his wife,
Mamie, and their daughter, Doris. Icicles hung three feet or more from the eaves of
houses, snowdrifts swallowed up automobiles, and the birds were so fluffed up they
looked comic.
The puppy had been abandoned, and it made its way down the road toward the
Laceys' small house, its ears tucked, its tail between its legs, shivering.
Doris, whose school had been called off because of the snow, was out shovelling
the cinderblock front steps when she spotted the pup on the road. She set down the
shovel.
"Hey! Come on!" she called.
The puppy stopped in the road, wagging its tail timidly, trembling with shyness
and cold.
Doris trudged through the yard, went up the shovelled drive and met the dog.
"Come on, Pooch."
“Where did that come from?" Mrs. Lacey asked as soon as Doris put the dog
down in the kitchen.
Mister Lacey was at the table, cleaning his fingernails with his pocketknife. The
snow was keeping him home from his job at the warehouse.
"I don't know where it came from," he said mildly, "but I know for sure where
it's going."
Doris hugged the puppy hard against her. She said nothing.
Because the roads would be too bad for travel for many days, Mister Lacey
couldn't get out to take the puppy to the pound in the city right away. He agreed to let it
sleep in the basement while Mrs. Lacey grudgingly let Doris feed it table scraps. The
woman was sensitive about throwing out food.
By the looks of it, Doris figured the puppy was about six months old, and on its
way to being a big dog. She thought it might have some shepherd in it.
Four days passed and the puppy did not complain. It never cried in the night or
howled at the wind. It didn't tear up everything in the basement. It wouldn't even follow
Doris up the basement steps unless it was invited.
It was a good dog.
Several times Doris had opened the door in the kitchen that led to the basement
and the puppy had been there, all stretched out, on the top step. Doris knew it had wanted
some company and that it had lain against the door, listening to the talk in the kitchen,
smelling the food, being a part of things. It always wagged its tail, eyes all sleepy, when
she found it there.
Even after a week had gone by, Doris didn't name the dog. She knew her parents
wouldn't let her keep it, that her father made so little money any pets were out of the
question, and that the pup would definitely go to the pound when the weather cleared.
Still, she tried talking to them about the dog at dinner one night.
"She's a good dog, isn't she?" Doris said, hoping one of them would agree with
her.
Her parents glanced at each other and went on eating.
"She's not much trouble," Doris added. "I like her." She smiled at them, but they
continued to ignore her..
"I figure she's real smart," Doris said to her mother. "I could teach her things."
Mrs. Lacey just shook her head and stuffed a forkful of sweet potato in her
mouth. Doris fell silent, praying the weather would never clear.
But on Saturday, nine days after the dog had arrived, the sun was shining and
the roads were plowed. Mister Lacey opened up the trunk of his car and came into the
house.
Doris was sitting alone in the living room, hugging a pillow and rocking back
and forth on the edge of a chair. She was trying not to cry but she was not strong enough.
Her face was wet and red, her eyes full of distress.
Mrs. Lacey looked into the room from the doorway.
"Mama," Doris said in a small voice. "Please."
Mrs. Lacey shook her head. "You know we can't afford a dog, Doris. You try
to act more grown-up about this." Doris pressed her face into the pillow. Outside, she
heard the trunk of the car slam shut, one of the doors open and close, the old engine
cough and choke and finally start up.
"Daddy," she whispered. "Please."
She heard the car travel down the road, and, though it was early afternoon, she
could do nothing but go to her bed. She cried herself to sleep, and her dreams were full
of searching and searching for things lost.
It was nearly night when she finally woke up. Lying there, like stone, still
exhausted, she wondered if she would ever in her life have anything. She stared at the
wall for a while.
But she started feeling hungry, and she knew she'd have to make herself get out
of bed and eat some dinner. She wanted not to go into the kitchen, past the basement
door. She wanted not to face her parents.
But she rose up heavily.
Her parents were sitting at the table, dinner over, drinking coffee. They looked at
her when she came in, but she kept her head down. No one spoke.
Doris made herself a glass of powdered milk and drank it all down. Then she
picked up a cold biscuit and started out of the room.
"You'd better feed that mutt before it dies of starvation," Mister Lacey said.
Doris turned around. "What?"
"I said, you'd better feed your dog. I figure it's looking for you."
Doris put her hand to her mouth.
"You didn't take her?" she asked.
"Oh, I took her all right," her father answered, "Worst looking place I've ever
seen. Ten dogs to a cage. Smell was enough to knock you down. And they give an animal
six days to live. Then they kill it with some kind of a shot.”
Doris stared at her father.
"I wouldn't leave an ant in that place," he said. "So I brought the dog back."
Mrs. Lacey was smiling at him and shaking her head as if she would never,
ever, understand him.
Mister Lacey sipped his coffee
"Well," he said, "are you going to feed it or not?"
lnside her mind, she felt a sensation
like a tiny whirlwind spinning around and around.
A Wish Named Arnold
by Charles de Lint
Marguerite kept a wish in a brass egg and its name was Arnold.
The egg screwed apart in the middle. Inside, wrapped in a small piece of faded
velvet, was the wish. It was a small wish, about the length of a man's thumb, and was
made of black clay in the rough shape of a bird. Marguerite decided straight away that it
was a crow, even if it did have a splash of white on its head. That made it just more
special for her, because she'd dyed a forelock of her own dark hair a peroxide white just
before the summer started--much to her parents' dismay.
She'd found the egg under a pile of junk in Miller's while tagging along with
her mother and aunt on their usual weekend tour of the local antique shops. Miller's was
near their cottage on Otty Lake, just down the road from Rideau Ferry, and considered to
be the best antique shop in the area.
The egg and its dubious contents were only two dollars, and maybe the egg
was dinged-up a little and didn't screw together quite right, and maybe the carving didn't
look so much like a crow as it did a lump of black clay with what could be a beak on it,
but she'd bought it all the same.
It wasn't until Arnold talked to her that she found out he was a wish.
"What do you mean you're a wish?" she'd asked, keeping her voice low so that
her parents wouldn't think she'd taken to talking in her sleep. "Like a genie in a lamp?"
Something like that.
It was all quite confusing. Arnold lay in her hand, an unmoving lump that was
definitely not alive even if he did look like a bird, sort of. That was a plain fact, as her
father liked to say. On the other hand, someone was definitely speaking to her in a low
buzzing voice that tickled pleasantly inside her head.
I wonder if I'm dreaming, she thought.
She gave her white forelock a tug, then brushed it away from her brow and
bent down to give the clay bird a closer look.
"What sort of a wish can you give me?" she asked finally.
Think of something--any one thing that you want--and I'll give it to you.
"Anything?"
Within reasonable limits.
Marguerite nodded sagely. She was all too familiar with that expression.
"Reasonable limits" was why she only had one forelock dyed instead of a whole swath of
rainbow colours like her friend Tina, or a Mohawk like Sheila. If she just washed her hair
and let it dry, and you ignored the dyed forelock, she had a most reasonable short haircut.
But all it took was a little gel that she kept hidden in her purse and by the time she joined
her friends at the mall, her hair was sticking out around her head in a bristle of spikes. It
was just such a pain wearing a hat when she came home and having to wash out the gel
right away.
Maybe that should be her wish. That she could go around looking just however
she pleased and nobody could tell her any different. Except that seemed like a waste of a
wish. She should probably ask for great heaps of money and jewels. Or maybe for a
hundred more wishes.
"How come I only get one wish?" she asked.
Because that's all I am, Arnold replied. One small wish.
"Genies and magic fish give three. In fact, everybody in all the stories usually
gets three. Isn't it a tradition or something?"
Not where I come from.
“Where do you come from?"
There was a moment's pause, then Arnold said softly, I'm not really sure.
Marguerite felt a little uncomfortable at that. The voice tickling her mind
sounded too sad and she started to feel ashamed of being so greedy.
"Listen," she said. "I didn't really mean to... you know... "
That's all right, Arnold replied. Just let me know when you've decided what
your wish is.
Marguerite got a feeling in her head then, as though something had just slipped
away, like a lost memory or a half-remembered thought, then she realized that Arnold
had just gone back to wherever it was that he'd been before she'd opened the egg.
Thoughtfully, she wrapped him up in the faded velvet, then shut him away in the egg.
She put the egg under her pillow and went to sleep.
All the next day she kept thinking about the brass egg and the clay crow inside it, about
her one wish and all the wonderful things that there were to wish for. She meant to take
out the egg right away, first thing in the morning, but she never quite found the time. She
went fishing with her father after breakfast, and then she went into Perth to shop with her
mother, and then she went swimming with Steve who lived two cottages down and liked
punk music as much as she did, though maybe for different reasons. She didn't get back
to her egg until bedtime that night.
"What happens to you after I've made my wish?" she asked after she'd taken
Arnold out of the egg.
I go away.
Marguerite asked, Where to?" before she really thought about what she was
saying, but this time Arnold didn't get upset.
To be someone else's wish, he said.
"And after that?"
Well, after they've made their wish, I'll go on to the next and the next...
"It sounds kind of boring."
Oh, no. I get to meet all sorts of interesting people.
Marguerite scratched her nose. She'd gotten a mosquito bite right on the end of
it and felt very much like Pinocchio though she hadn't been telling any lies.
"Have you always been a wish?" she asked, not thinking again.
Arnold's voice grew so quiet that it was just a feathery touch in her mind. I
remember being something else.., a long time ago...
Marguerite leaned closer, as though that would help her hear him better. But
there was a sudden feeling in her, as though Arnold had shaken himself out of his reverie.
Do you know what you're going to wish for yet ? he asked briskly.
"Not exactly."
Well, just let me know when you're ready, he said and then he was gone again.
Marguerite sighed and put him away. This didn't seem to be at all the way this
whole wishing business should go. Instead of feeling all excited about being able to ask
for any one thing--anything!--she felt guilty because she kept making Arnold feel bad.
Mind you, she thought, he did seem to be a gloomy sort of a genie when you came right
down to it.
She fell asleep wondering if he looked the same wherever he went to when he
left her as he did when she held him in her hand. Somehow his ticklish raspy voice didn't
quite go with the lumpy clay figure that lay inside the brass egg. She supposed she'd
never know.
As the summer progressed they became quite good friends, in an odd sort of
way. Marguerite took to carrying the egg around with her in a small quilted bag that she
slung over her shoulder. At opportune moments, she'd take Arnold out and they'd talk
about all sorts of things.
Arnold, Marguerite discovered, knew a lot that she hadn't supposed a genie
would know. He was current with all the latest bands, seemed to have seen all the best
movies, knew stories that could make her giggle uncontrollably or shiver with chills
under her blankets late at night. If she didn't press him for information about his
past, he proved to be the best friend a person could want and she found herself telling him
things she'd never think of telling anyone else.
It got to the point where Marguerite forgot he was a wish. Which was fine until
the day that she left her quilted cotton bag behind in a restaurant in Smiths Falls on a
day's outing with her mother. She became totally panic-stricken until her mother took her
back to the restaurant, but by then her bag was gone, and so was the egg, and with it
Arnold.
Marguerite was inconsolable. She moped around for days and nothing that anyone
could do could cheer her up. She missed Arnold passionately. Missed their long talks
when she was supposed to be sleeping. Missed the weight of his egg in her shoulder bag
and the companionable presence of just knowing he was there. And also, she realized,
she'd missed her chance of using her wish.
She could have had anything she wanted. She could have asked for piles of
money. For fame and fortune. To be a lead singer in a rock band. To be a famous actor
and star in all kinds of movies. She could have wished that Arnold would stay with her
forever. Instead, jerk that she was, she'd never used the wish and now she had nothing.
How could she be so stupid?
"Oh," she muttered one night in her bed. "I wish... I wish..."
She paused then, feeling a familiar tickle in her head.
Did you finally decide on your wish ? Arnold asked.
Marguerite sat up so suddenly that she knocked over her water glass on the night
table. Luckily it was empty.
"Arnold?" she asked, looking around. "Are you here?"
Well, not exactly here, as it were, but I can hear you.
“'Where have you been?"
Waiting for you to make your wish.
"I've really missed you," Marguerite said. She patted her comforter with eager
hands, trying to find Arnold's egg. "How did you get back here?"
I'm not exactly here, Arnold said.
"How come you never talked to me when I've been missing you all this time?"
I really can't initiate these things, Arnold explained. It gets rather complicated,
but even though my egg's with someone else, I can't really be their wish until I've finished
being yours.
"So we can still talk and be friends even though I've lost the egg?"
Not exactly. I can fulfill your wish, but since I'm not with you, as it were, I can't
really stay unless you're ready to make your wish.
"You can't?" Marguerite wailed.
Afraid not. I don't make the rules, you know.
"I've got it," Marguerite said. And she did have it too. If she wanted to keep
Arnold with her, all she had to do was wish for him to always be her friend. Then no one
could take him away from her. They'd always be together.
"I wish ..." she began.
But that didn't seem quite right, she realized. She gave her bleached forelock a
nervous tug. It wasn't right to make someone be your friend. But if she didn't do that, if
she wished something else, then Arnold would just go off and be somebody else's wish.
Oh, if only things didn't have to be so complicated. Maybe she should just wish herself to
the moon and be done with all her problems. She could lie there and stare at the world
from a nice long distance away while she slowly asphyxiated. That would solve
everything.
She felt that telltale feeling in her mind that let her know that Arnold was
leaving again.
"Wait," she said. "I haven't made my wish yet."
The feeling stopped. Then you've decided ? Arnold asked.
She hadn't, but as soon as he asked, she realized that there was only one fair wish
she could make.
"I wish you were free," she said.
The feeling that was Arnold moved blurrily inside her.
You what? he asked. "I wish you were free. I can wish that, can't I?"
Yes, but... Wouldn't you rather have something.., well, something for yourself?.
"This is for myself," Marguerite said. 'Your being free would be the best thing I
could wish for because you're my friend and I don't want you to be trapped anymore."
She paused for a moment, brow wrinkling. "Or is there a rule against that?"
No rule, Arnold said softly. His ticklish voice bubbled with excitement. No rule
at all against it.
"Then that's my wish," Marguerite said.
Inside her mind, she felt a sensation like a tiny whirlwind spinning around and
around. It was like Arnold's voice and an autumn leaves smell and a kaleidoscope of
dervishing lights, all wrapped up in one whirling sensation.
Free! Arnold called from the centre of that whirligig. Free free free.
A sudden weight was in Marguerite's hand and she saw that the brass egg had
appeared there. It lay open in her palm, the faded velvet spilled out of it. It seemed so
very small to hold so much happiness, but fluttering on tiny wings was the clay crow,
rising up in a spin that twinned Arnold's presence in Marguerite's mind.
Her fingers closed around the brass egg as Arnold doubled, then tripled his size
in an explosion of black feathers. His voice was like a chorus of bells, ringing and ringing
between Marguerite's ears. Then with an exuberant caw, he stroked the air with his
wings, flew out the cottage window, and was gone.
Marguerite sat quietly, staring out the window and holding the brass egg. A big
grin stretched her lips. There was something so right about what she'd just done that she
felt an overwhelming sense of happiness herself, as though she'd been the one trapped in
a treadmill of wishes in a brass egg, and Arnold had been the one to free her.
At last she reached out and picked up from the comforter a small glossy black
feather that Arnold had left behind. Wrapping it in the old velvet, she put it into the brass
egg and screwed the egg shut once more.
That September a new family moved in next door with a boy her age named
Arnold. Marguerite was delighted and, though her parents were surprised, she and the
new boy became best friends almost immediately. She showed him the egg one day that
winter and wasn't at all surprised that the feather she still kept in it was the exact same
shade of black as her new friend's hair.
Arnold stroked the feather with one finger when she let him see it. He smiled at
her and said, "I had a wish once ... "