Author: Emily Schneider

Emily Schneider is a writer and educator living in New York City. She has published on children's literature, feminism, and politics in Tablet, The Foward, Jewcy, and Family Reading at The Horn Book. She is a regular reviewer for The Jewish Book Council.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Ramon Fellini the Dog Detective – written and illustrated by Guilherme Karsten
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

Sometimes people believe what they want to believe, in spite of evidence to the contrary. Children have their own frame of reference for viewing the world. Whether you choose to call it innocence, or just a still untested belief that no one would lie to them, sometimes they interpret events differently than an adult would.  The endearing boy who narrates Ramon Fellini the Dog Detective needs to determine who overturned his fishbowl, leaving one fish missing and the remaining one “terrified.” When a self-proclaimed Dog Detective shows up at his door, offering to help, he is relieved, if momentarily confused. This dog looks just like a cat.

Guilherme Karsten has created a believable character. In his striped shirt, curly dark hair, and oversized glasses, the boy is an image of curiosity combined with trust.  The dog resembles a cat because his costume is “impeccable.” The questions posed by this detective are searching, and, if his methods seemed “strange,” the boy still has confidence that he will find the culprit.  One might think that a close up revealing the dog’s interrogation of the remaining fish would invite skepticism. The fish “looked like it had just seen a ghost,” and the detective extends his very feline tongue towards the fishbowl. But the boy has suspended his disbelief. (Suspension of belief is a theme in Karsten’s work.)

Every picture conveys character. The dog detective mirrors the black and white of the venetian blinds, as he lifts one of the slates to peer outside. One of his eyes half closes exactly like the aperture. But while the blinds are just an object, the dog looks notably sly.  Meanwhile, the boy looks on in appreciation of the detective’s skills.  Even after this supposedly canine Sherlock insists on taking a walk with the fish in its bowl to search for clues, the boy is only worried that his pet will be cold.

Will children think of the boy as foolish? No; just look at the abundant evidence and expertise the dog detective shows, even using a pointer to indicate his deduction about the fish’s escape. When Fellini hands him a post card from the fish’s destination, the boy has even more support for his faith in good deeds.  The dog detective is “AMAZING,” “a legend,” and even “a boy’s best friend.” (images).  The price of the boy’s happiness is not clear. After all, the fish is gone, and the boy is left with the deep satisfaction of having benefited by the detective’s incredible skills and dedication.  What has he really lost?

Perhaps the Model for Lionel Trug

Paddington in the Garden – written by Michael Bond, illustrated by R.W. Alley
HarperCollins, 2002

At the beginning of Paddington in the Garden, the bear we all love is, typically, engaged in an act of gratitude. He is making a list of “all the nice things” about his life with the Brown family.  Paddington is not one to overlook the simple joys of life: “a room of his own and warm bed to sleep in.” Of course, he singles out the availability of marmalade, which in Darkest Peru had been only a weekly treat. R.W. Alley pictures him seated at a table in his own garden, where climbing trellises of red and purple flowers and a bird sipping from a fountain set the scene.

Mrs. Bird, the housekeeper whose wisdom is matched only by her kindness, suggests finding space for Paddington, along with the Brown children, Jonathan and Judy, for their own sections of the garden to tend. At first Paddington is perplexed, learning that gardening is challenging, especially for a bear. He decides to go shopping, in search of some inspiration.  In the local market, he comes upon an old copy of an apparently popular guide, How to Plan Your Garden, by Lionel Trug. 

I recently read an obituary in The New York Times that suggested a real-life model for the gardening expert, who eventually awards Paddington a medal for his quite original entrance in the National Garden Day competition. Mr. David Hessayon was, according to the subtitle, “a fixture of British life for half a century.” He earned this status with a series of how-to volumes on gardening, with titles such as Be Your Own Gardening Expert (1959), Be Your Own House Plant Expert, and The New Flower Expert. The books appealed with their straightforward advice and unpretentious tone.  Then I read that Mr. Hessayon was the children of immigrants from Cyprus. By their names, his parents seem to have been Jewish.  His father was a watchmaker, immediately calling to mind Paddington’s friend, Mr. Gruber, tinkering in his antique shop.  Michael Bond was an outspoken advocate for immigrants; Paddington himself found refuge in Britain after a long sea voyage. He was fortunate to be met by the family who took the instructions, “Please look after this bear,” to heart.  (link to my previous posts on Bond.). He specifically linked the character of Mr. Gruber to his memory of having seen Jewish children arriving during World War II, on the kindertransport program.

In the book, Mr. Trug has gray hair and sideburns and wears a tweed vest and a green sports jacket.  Paddington’s naiveté often highlights some human foible. Upon first glancing through the book, the bear had remarked that Mr. Trug, who appears on the back smoking a pipe, seems to “do most of his planning while lying in a hammock.”  He seems a bit full of himself as he marches towards the recipient of his prestigious award. I’m sure that Mr. Hessayon, shown in the Times grinning broadly in a greenhouse with his geraniums, was not pompous at all. In fact, I’m sure that Paddington would have been his friend.

D.E.A.R. (Drop Everything and Read about Stella and Marigold)

Stella & Marigold – written by Annie Barrows, illustrated by Sophie Blackall
Chronicle Books, 2024

Stella and Marigold are each brave, in their own way. Marigold is the younger of the two sisters, but it would be inaccurate to call her a “pest.” This first in a series of adventures about two sisters is not merely an homage to Beverly Cleary, but Beezus and Ramona are somehow omnipresent in the best way.  Cleary virtually invented the portrait of sisters as a complex, and yet easily identifiable, story for young readers.  Annie Barrows‘ narration appeals to exactly the right level, and Sophie Blackall’s gorgeous colored pictures create an unforgettable image of the girls, from Marigold’s birth to their imaginative channeling of pioneer children in a snowstorm.

Each chapter is a showcase for Stella and Marigold’s unbreakable bond and their boundless inventiveness.  Their understanding parents are the perfect audience, and also are there to guide them when a situation demands adult intervention.  In “Lost and Found in the Meerkat Mound,” a trip to the zoo with their father culminates in a visit to the “crabby little animals who live in big groups under the ground.”

After the rather sedentary turtles and the hilarious gibbons, the meerkats should offer a calm conclusion to the day. Instead, Marigold gets lost in the special tunnel built to give children a good view of the habitat.  At home after Marigold’s rescue, the sisters draw pictures; Marigold’s is an appropriate angry swirl of black lines. Stella’s simple reassurance that “Everyone gets lost sometimes. Even grown-ups,” is not enough to make her sister feel better, so she “reminds” her of when the Vice President had visited their city and benefited from Marigold’s assistance. Marigold accepts the truth of the story, not because she is gullible, but because her trust is so deeply rooted.

Less dramatically, “The Lucky Half” converts the visit of a plumber to retrieve Marigold’s purple hairclip. When the girls’ mother is less than thrilled at this turn of events, Stella devises an alternative explanation to carelessness. The bathroom is the only room in their house with magic powers, enabling all the mundane items there to move independently. She even provides the odd detail to make her story somehow more credible. Her response to Marigold’s asking if toys also had this superpower, is an emphatic “no.” The magic only applies to clips, toothpaste, and brushes, and only for “four minutes each night.”  Stella, like Barrows and Blackall, knows exactly how to make a story believable through the perfect combination of details.  The book is dedicated to Lore Segal, “who knows about kids and stories,” granting that author the same kind of honorary status as grandmother to Stella and Marigold that Beverly Cleary holds.  Fortunately, there is more to look forward to in September, when the second book in the series is released.    

Learning from Color

A Universe of Rainbows – poems selected by Matt Forrest Esenwine, illustrated by Jamey Christoph
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

To paraphrase Mark Twain oft quoted remark about the weather, everybody talks about STEAM (science, technology, engineering, arts, and mathematics), but nobody does anything about it.  A Universe of Rainbows is a picture book that fulfills the ideal of combining education about these seemingly disparate fields.  An anthology of poems rooted in rainbows and color, it includes works by well-known authors and others whose work may be less familiar.  Each poem is accompanied by a boldly colored illustrated, and by a column of informational text. The breadth and range of the content and styles is amazing.

Virtually any selection gives a sense of the book’s approach. A poem by prolific author Marilyn Singer, “Rainbows in a Cage,” warns of the dangers of extinction caused by the voracious pursuit of rainbow finches: “They wanted rainbows in a cage:/finches stolen from the wild./A different time, a different age.” Singer uses the poetic form of the triolet, while other poems in the collection are composed in free verse.  This compact form, using only two different rhymes, is perfect for conveying her message.  The birds’ beauty does not excuse their exhaustion by selfish collectors. At the same time, she contextualizes the events by noting that different standards have applied in the past.  Jamey Christoph’s picture of the sought-after birds sitting on branches shows the bright and pastel colors that attracted collectors.  The explanatory text gives historical background and summarizes the results of the birds’ popularity: “the demand for Gouldian flinches became so great they were nearly trapped and caged out of existence.”

Lee Wardlaw points out the unfairness of judging a species only by its obvious beauty in “The Fruit Fly’s Secret.”  Yes, butterflies are lovely, but “just because/they flit and flirt/on wings of rainbow hues” they have deflected attention from the equally significant fruit fly.  Viewed under a microscope, the colors of these insects are revealed, elevating them from their lowly habitats in “drains and sinks and mops” or rotting fruit.  The text box describes how photomicroscopy documents how they refract light, and also interacts with the poem itself.  Wardlaw includes quotes from different authors extolling the beauty of butterflies; the text refers back to the poem by attributing each quote (Victor Hugo, Oscar Wilde, Bashō, and more).

Editor Matt Forrest Esenwine’s own poetry is also part of the book. “Alien Fountain” responds with awe to the unexpected phenomenon of the Fly Geyser, a “peculiar/accident/that could/only have/been created/by human ignorance/and Nature’s/resilient/soul.”  This result of an energy company’s drilling for geothermal water in the 1960s produced a strangely stunning appearance, captured in Christoph’s illustration.  The algae growing on mounds of limestone caused an explosion of color, “giving the geyser its otherworldly appearance.” As in all the explanations, concise presentation of facts works in parallel with literary language.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough.  It sets a high bar for authors and artists aspiring to link science and the arts without sacrificing aesthetic and linguistic distinction.

The Moon is a Melon

How Do You Eat Color – written by Mabi David, illustrated by Yas Doctor, translated by Karen Llagas
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

The answer to the question posed in the title of Mabi David and Yas Doctor’s new picture book might be obvious to a child. Color is one of the first categories that children learn to identify. It then becomes integrated into both their imaginary and real worlds. Food, of course, is inextricably associated with color.  How Do You Eat Color, translated from the work of a Filipina author and illustrator, combines simple language with deep metaphors, and images in oil on paper, to express all these connections. 

David poses questions, gives answers, and offers suggestions. (Karen Llagas is an experienced translator, as well as a poet, and the text reflects her expertise.)  The book opens with an intriguing series of inquiries that establish its theme: “Do you know how red tastes?…Is green sweet and cold like your favorite sorbet?”  If so, or if you have never considered those ideas but would like to, then “Feast on color when you eat fruits and vegetables.” Each two-page spread considers the possibility of looking at a color in a new way, as the setting for a multisensory experience.

Yellow first appears as a river surrounded by giant pineapples and ears of corn. A boy and girl, and their lizard friend, row in boats made of mangos. After this journey, they rest on bunches of bananas. The scale and composition of the pictures inverts the sizes of people and plants, with tall carrots rising against the sky as the children, receding into the background, run towards half an orange as the setting sun.  The purple pages mix fruits, vegetables, and human activity, “As you tuck yourself in like a yam, bundled like plums in a basket.” Horizontal stripes on the girl’s dress contrast with the vertical ones on her blanket, as she clutches oversized plums. 

After the core of the book invites children to appreciate the artistic and joyful natures of food, there are several more pages introducing the actual characteristics of different foods and their health benefits.  Instead of a chart, the format is a dialogue, with answers to questions about each food’s definition, how to eat it, and why it is healthful. Finally, David and Doctor complete the circle, emphasizing how a variety of foods, in their rainbow of colors, have both physical and aesthetic benefits. An in-depth exploration of a simple idea, How Do You Eat Color, suggests multiple answers to that fundamental question.

Turning Over a New Leaf

How to Talk to Your Succulent – written and illustrated by Zoe Persico
Tundra Books, 2025

In Zoe Persico’s incredibly inventive graphic novel, Adara’s mother has recently died. She and her father leave California to move in with her grandmother in Michigan. The potential subjects of graphic novels are unlimited, and How to Talk to Your Succulent is not the first one to deal with grief, or strained relationships of parents and children. It is, however, outstanding in its sensitivity, bold graphics, and experimentation with fantasy and reality as equal components of a young girl’s search for the truth. Persico quietly presents a scenario that defies reality, and then proceeds to immerse the reader in a world where it is utterly plausible.

If you are skeptical about human communication with plants, this book will demonstrate the irrelevance of that reservation. Adara is sad and uprooted, even though her grandmother is a pillar of flexible strength. Her father is trying, somewhat helplessly, to cope with his own desolation and anger, which he approaches by inadvertently discouraging his daughter from expressing her feelings. What could be worse than this agonizing moment in all their lives? As it turns out, Adara’s mother had quietly used a special power. Not only did she have the proverbial green thumb at growing plants, she could actually communicate with them: “Like, you know, actual conversations.”

Adara’s grandmother, who resembles a child’s ideal image of a non-judgmental old person as both youthful and wise, also keeps a garden and greenhouse. When Adara’s father realizes that she has taken to wearing her mother’s earrings, which resemble tiny plants, he takes her to visit a nursery where she can select an actual plant of her own. This gesture is the closest he can come to acknowledging her feelings of isolation. At the greenhouse she meets Perle, short for Perle von Nurnberg, a delicately beautiful succulent who, for a devastatingly brief second Adara believes to be speaking in her mother’s voice. Then comes the epiphany: “I can talk to plants just like Mom! I knew it! I knew it!”

There is nothing affected about this unusual series of circumstances. Readers are not asked to suspend disbelief, but to enter Adara’s emotional state without preconceptions. Broadening her narrow circle of relatives, she also meets a new best friend, Winnie, a frustrated artist whose own mother is demanding and unappreciative of her daughter’s talents. Still, she has a living mother and Adara does not. But other people, as Adara learns, have their own problems and also need to be protected in order to thrive. Perle, the plant who demonstrates Adara’s maternal inheritance, is threatened with extinction if Adara cannot learn that same lesson as it applies to her.

The artwork of How to Talk to Your Succulent is inseparable from the text. Persico uses earth colors, jewel tones, and gradations of light in a setting that combines the spaciousness of nature with the enclosed scale of a greenhouse. People’s emotions register with expressive brush strokes, as do the fantastic plants who interact with each other and intersect with humans. The author’s note reaffirms her commitment, both artistic and emotional, to connecting with the reader. She includes mixed media photographic images, a visual and textual demonstration of her method, and even a guide to the plants at the root of her story. Equally innovative for its graphics and its exploration of emotional vulnerability, this book will bloom with every re-reading.

Uri Shulevitz 1935-2025

Uri Shulevitz died on February 15.  The breadth of his artistic vision was outstanding, demonstrated both in books which he wrote and illustrated, and in others that he illustrated in collaboration with another author.  Many were deep explorations of Jewish themes, while others were more universal in scope. Chance was a masterpiece, integrating his entire life’s work in both words and pictures (I have also written about him here and here). The title indicates his conviction that his survival as a refugee from the Nazis, and, therefore, his entire career as an artist, was fundamentally a result of random events.  The book earned many distinctions; unfortunately, a Sydney Taylor award was not among them.

I would like to call attention to one long out-of-print work by Mr. Shulevitz, his quirky, and even disturbing, Toddlecreek Post Office. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1990). Like several of his other books, it adopts a tone from folklore. The small village of Toddlecreek has a small post office. It resembles an ordinary house, with tall windows, flower boxes, and an American flag indicating its purpose. The name of the postmaster is Vernon Stamps, reinforcing the idea that the story is something of a parable. (Some of his neighbors are named Mrs. Woolsox; Charlie Ax the logger; and the garrulous and nostalgic Dexter Shuffles.) Mr. Stamps is busy and efficient, but also compassionate, helping everyone in the community and even welcoming animals to his overcrowded enterprise.

Into this paradise, one unfortunate day, the postal inspector intrudes.  Her presence is immediately disturbing, and the animals react before she even sets about her task. “Birds’ songs diminished…Bees’ buzzing ceased, or so it seemed. The small dogs stopped barking, and stared.” The inspector examines the post office’s records, as well as the evidence that unofficial, but humane, activities are also promoted there. There are books to read, and announcements for barn dances on the bulletin board. She announces that the post office will be closed. Vernon is stunned, but he senses that resistance to this decision is futile. He locks up and leaves.

If readers are not already saddened by this point, Shulevitz makes clear that the post office’s closure leaves a terrible gap in the life of the community.  There is a sense of shock in the rumors about Silken, Vernon’s part wolf and part sled dog companion. The animal has disappeared. “Some say she went north to join the wolves. Others say she was killed by a hunter.” 

What motivated Shulevitz to end the book on an unambiguous note of sadness? He was a great artist and humanist who had lived through the worst conditions imposed by tyranny.  Toddlecreek has been ruined.  “It is not on any map, it is bypassed by travelers and forgotten by time. And now, like any other small village, Toddlecreek has no post office.” Yet, unlike the residents of this unfortunate town, he did survive to produce an unforgettable body literature and artwork for both children and adults.

Fairy Architects

The Tallest Tree House – written and illustrated by Elly MacKay
Running Press Kids, 2019

Fairies usually live in tiny, beautiful, dwellings. Sometimes these are made of obvious materials: leaves, twigs, moss, and other natural elements. Often a child who loves fairies created them, or at least happens upon them and lovingly interacts with their inhabitants (for example this and this). In Elly MacKay’s The Tallest Tree House, there are two fairies, no humans. Both fairies have architectural aspirations as does this mouse). Their names are Mip and Pip, and they are somewhat competitive; at least Mip is. She actually challenges Pip to a contest: “Whoever makes the best tree house by sundown wins!” This impulsive idea doesn’t take into account the fact that Pip is currently reading a book about architecture. 

Elly MacKay’s illustrations are theatrical; she describes her method in inspiring detail (I reviewed another of her books here). Looking at her cut-out figures, carefully placed in stage settings, I was reminded a bit of the Cottingley fairy episode, a well-intentioned fraud when two girls in early 20th century Britain convinced a credulous public that they had photographed fairies. Of course, there is no fraud here; Mip and Pip are real and they create their own home. But the delicacy and care involved in bringing them to life seem related.

Even looking at the two friends, Pip seems more serious. In addition to his reading, he has a tall, pointed leaf for a head covering. Mip, in contrast, sports a comically oversized mushroom cap.  Pip draws blueprints based on his planning.  He carries a, presumably, well-stocked toolbox and uses a pulley. The sight of Mip’s obviously fragile tall tower worries him, because he cares about her more than he does about winning. Eventually, they work as a team, together completing “a winning piece of architecture.” 

Several qualities set this book apart in children’s fairy literature.  There is the tortoise and hare allusion, and the friendly warning that you need technology as well as patience to build a fairy house.  The composition resembles a theater set, and even includes sound effects, such as a terrifying BOOM in huge font when Mip’s shoddy tower collapses.  The book is not unique in excluding human observers, but it does feature an unusually independent fairy world.  Next time you build a house for fairies, read Pip’s book and bring along some simple machines.

What Makes Us Happy

I Would Give You My Tail – written by Tanya Tagaq, illustrated by Qavavau Manumie
Tundra Books, 2025

This tender, subtle, book, about a boy awaiting the birth of a sibling, is set among the Indigenous people of Nunavut, northern Canada. It is both unique to their culture and universal in its expression of gratitude, both to people and the environment in which they live. The title refers to a conversation between two hares, echoed by other animals, and finally by the brother welcoming his new sister to the world they will share. The language seamlessly weaves together the language of the physical world and metaphor. The pictures, created in colored pencil, draw from Inuit folklore, as well as the specific qualities of the characters.  Sharing is a concept central to the book, part of the overall vision of happiness passed from one generation to the next.

Assuming a child’s perspective in a book for children may seem natural, but it’s not so easily accomplished. Here, from the first page, readers will empathize with the boy, Kalluk’s, feelings of expectation and some anxiety, as he awaits a profound event in his life.  Tanya Tagaq is straightforward in presenting the situation: “Kalluk’s mother is in labor and about to have a baby.” Even the repetition of seemingly redundant terms, “labor,” and “about to have a baby,” reflects the way that children incorporate reality. Qavavau Manumie’s illustration shows the pregnant mother touching her kneeling son in a gesture of reassurance, before he sets out to bring his grandmother to help.

Unhappiness is, realistically, part of Kalluk’s range of feelings at this moment. He asks two hares why they are happy, and learns how the qualities that they need to survive, speed and cleverness, are fulfilling ones. A brook is happy because of the fish who inhabit it. Mothers, animals or human, are happy with the offspring to their care. Explanations are kept to a minimum. Kalluk can sense the sincerity of all the responses.

A picture of Kalluk seated with his back against a giant mitten embodies his feelings of gratitude tinged with sadness. He clearly misses his mother, thinks of the warm mittens she has created for him, and sends her “all the love in his heart.” The way in which that message is convened does not need to be articulated.

Meeting his grandparents, Kalluk has reached the confirmation of all the previous lessons about gratitude and love. His grandmother, Anaanattiaq in their North Qikiqtaaluk dialect, is unapologetically depicted as old; she “stands up slowly, bones creaking and cane shaking.”  Any diminished physical strength is no obstacle, as she states purposefully, “Let’s go greet the new one.” Walking home, the boy asks her about her source of happiness. When she answers “peace,” he requests an elaboration. This dialogue is different from those with the animals. She tells him in the most direct language that peace grows inside each person, as he or she makes a series of choices in life. The right choices will make you proud, and grant “lots of peace,” the kind that is meant to be shared.

When Kalluk and Anaanattiaq come upon “a conspiracy of ravens,” the squawking, lively birds are friendly towards them.  Their requirement for happiness is “knowledge,” a slight variation of the other animals’ answers. Their grandmother, the ravens assure Kalluk, is full of knowledge. That knowledge is put to the most important use when she arrives at Kalluk’s home, where his mother has already given birth and his breastfeeding the baby whom he is now prepared to teach everything he has learned.  Gratitude for food, water, family, and the ability to choose well, are the gifts he brings to her, as well along with a declaration of love.  I Would Give You My Tail is like a perfect circle, enclosing the reader in the complete circle of Kalluk’s journey.

Show and Tell for the Shy

The Quiet One – written and illustrated by Yiting Lee
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

There is a quietly reassuring message in Yiting Lee’s picture book about shyness.  As carefully constructed as the robot that a young girl, Milly, constructs out of castoff materials, the story explains that not everyone needs to be outgoing, or brimming with obvious confidence. There is nothing wrong with those qualities, more obviously associated with success than being introverted. But not everyone fits that mold.  Milly is one such child; she doesn’t need to radically change her personality. She needs to accept it, and to expect others to, as well.

Milly’s classroom is full of active children. They are kicking a soccer ball, running in the aisles, and giving a pretend karaoke experience. The behaviors of these lively kids is not universal. Readers will note that there are other students reading and drawing. However, even they are engaged in conversations with one another, while Milly is alone, actually seated behind a wooden partition.  Milly lacks a fundamental sense of who she is: “She wasn’t sure if she didn’t have anything to say, or just didn’t know how to say it.”

Mechanical skills are one of Milly’s strengths, even though she may not perceive them that way.  Her “secret place” is a workshop full of recyclables and junk, a vast collection which she imbues with potential use.  I am fascinated by Lee’s use of scale in illustrating this haven. On the first two-page spread, it appears on the second page, dwarfed by the preceding picture of students who are excited about an upcoming show-and-tell activity.  Hovering in her workshop, Milly and her stuff appear dollhouse-sized in comparison with the previous scene.  Only on the following two pages does the reader see the full-sized nature of her vocation. Lee’s illustrations are rendered in watercolor and colored pencils, digitally edited.  The limited range of colors, small detailed images, and word bubbles mixed with text, all create a unified quality to the book.  Milly is an artist as well as a mechanic.  In her workshop, she gestures to a cartoon-like sequence of drawings showing the transformation of each single item into a wondrous contraption.  She is gifted, and her insecurity is clearly rooted only in social expectations.

Finding a broken cleaning robot, Milly envisions a new use for it.  She creates a kind of Frankenstein’s monster, but without the torment of that creature.  There are two wordless pages, and then he emerges as Arnold, speaking in pixels. Arnold becomes just the first production in an elaborate amusement park of trash converted to delightful rides. Arnold, it turns out, can do more than just say his own name. He counsels Milly, advising her not to be afraid of bringing him to show-and-tell. Is he a personification of Milly’s own psyche? Adults will probably infer that, and children likely will not. The important part is the role that he plays.

Explaining Arnold’s origins to a rapt audience, Milly slowly begins to change.  “She was so caught up in the moment that she forgot all about her fear.” Rather than an abstract resolution not to be shy, Milly learns through doing that her supposed weakness is actually a strength. Children who are shy will love this book, as will any adult who was a shy child, knows a shy child, or is still shy in adulthood. On the other hand, kids who happily play soccer in the middle of a classroom will appreciate its vision of human difference.