Steam shovel, big rocks, little rocks, tar, steamroller. The road comes rolling out from the distant city that's Huck's page to study. We must pause while Rilla touches each crescent and disk, naming the days. And then the next spread, the calendar of moons. The sun arcs across the page and this must be pored over, wait, Mommy, don't turn the page yet. The house is built, the countryside blooms, the seasons change. I love quiet books like The Little House, the kind that tiptoe their way into a child's heart. Huck climbs half on top of me and begins to count the trees around the little pink house. She has a laugh her sisters call the Evil Chipmunk. "Hot pink," she murmurs approvingly, studying the cover. She'll give almost anything a chance, if there's pink involved. "It's about a big city growing up around this little pink house." Rilla isn't sure she likes the look of Virginia Lee Burton's The Little House.
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