Silence

　　I lifted the door lever and went outside to stand in the quiet. Then I leaped through the deep snow, through the woods, around the pond, and out to the road where Flora and Nickel's car had been. I stood looking down the road. The quiet was almost as loud as the noise of the wind.

　　The snow was high. No one had plowed. It was the longest stretch of white I'd ever seen——up and down the long road.

　　I listened, but there were no faraway sounds of cars or plow trucks.

　　Silence.

The Poet's Dog, P61-62
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9

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I Feel Different

　　"What are you thinking about?" I asked her.

　　"My youth," she said.

　　Nickel grinned.

　　"Like now?" he asked.

　　Flora shook her head.

　　"I feel different."

　　"You are different," I said. "You've been brave.You wrote a note and left it for your mother. You kept us in good food for nearly five days."

　　I thought of Sylvan's students, romping through life like puppies——young people trying to write their way into adulthood.

　　"Do you remember when I was born?" Flora asked Nickel.

　　"I do. I wanted a guinea pig."

　　"Do you remember when you are young?" Flora asked me.

　　"I'm not sure my memories are like yours. I remember Sylvan most because he gave me words for my memories. Before that I remember moments, but I had no words for them."

　　Flora lifted her shoulders and sighed.

　　"I think I feel different because I have worries. I never had worries before now."

The Poet's Dog, P55-56
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9

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Poignancy

　　"'Day three in the cabin during a horrific storm,'" Nickel read dramatically from his notebook. "'Flora is rummaging through the refrigerator like a hungry weasel, searching for something mysterious, and possibly poisonous.'"

　　Nickel wrote silently in his notebook everyday, and had just begun reading his view of our life in the cabin.

　　His writing is funny, sly, and some times poignant. Sylvan had taught me the word poignant.

　　"It may be the most important thing in poetry," Sylvan tells me. "Poignancy."

　　Sylvan would have said that Nickel had style.

The Poet's Dog, P36-37
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9

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Sometimes I Forget, too

　　In the night I got up once to push up the door lever with my nose and go outside into the wind.

　　Nickel raised his head.

　　"Where are you going?"

　　His voice sounded frightened.

　　"I'm going to pee," I said.

　　I heard Flora's sleepy, comforting voice in the dark.

　　"He's a dog," Flora said softly.

　　"Oh right," said Nickel. "I kept forgetting that."

　　I came back to my red rug next to Nickel.

　　His arm went round me again.

　　"Sometimes I forget, too," I said to Nickel.

The Poet's Dog, P20-21
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9

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Like Washed Apples

　　It is a windy afternoon. Sylvan's class of poets sit in a group. There is a fire in the fireplace. I lie on the red rug, listening. The students who want to be poets are eager and fresh, like washed apples. Sylvan and I are the only ones with gray, grizzled hair.

　　"They know so little about life," Sylvan whispers to me as he puts out plates of cookies and seltzer bottles.

　　"Maybe they just don't know what they know," I say, making Sylvan smile.

The Poet's Dog, P24
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9

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Words

　　I'm a dog. I should tell you that right away. But I grew up with words. A poet named Sylvan found me at the shelter and took me home. He laid down a red rug for me by the fire, and I grew up to the clicking of his keyboard as he wrote.

　　He wrote all day. And he read to me. He read Yeats and Shakespeare, Jmaes Joyce, Wordsworth, Natalie Babbitt, and Billy Collins. He read me Charlotte's Web, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Morning Girl, and my favorite story, Ox-Cart Man. So I saw how words follow one another and felt the comfort of them.

　　I understand words, but there are only two who understand me when I speak. Sylvan told me this.

　　"Poets and children," said Sylvan. "We are the same really. When you can't find a poet, find a child. Remember that."

The Poet's Dog, P3-4
Patricia MacLachlan
ISBN 978-0-06-229262-9

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Everyone Has Their Own Blocks to Drag Around

　　His eyes widen. "That is so. Cool! You're so lucky. Letters just stand there all boring when I read. I hate reading. I'd rather do anything in the world than read."

　　"Really?" I ask, wishing that the letters would just stand still for me and wait to be read.

　　He gasps a little, as if he can't believe that I don't agree. "Uh, yeah? Are you kidding? Last summer, my mother kept giving me the choice of reading or washing her car. She had the cleanest car in the neighbourhood all summer."

　　I smiled because I really like Oliver. I've been thinking about myself so much, I never really noticed how funny he is.

　　And looking around the room, I remember thinking that my reading differences were like dragging a concrete block around every day, and how I felt sorry for myself. Now I realize that everyone has their own blocks to drag around. And they all feel heavy.

Fish in a Tree, P245
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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I've Become A Pachyderm

　　"Elephants do have good memories," he says. "But that isn't why I chose it as my symbolic name."

　　"Then why?" I ask.

　　"Well . . . I've become a pachyderm."

　　"Is that a religion?" I ask.

　　His face twitches a bit. "No. An elephant is a pachyderm. It means an animal with a thick skin."

　　I guess we're all pachyderms, then. Or we pretend to be.

　　His fingers picks at the side of his thumb. "Elephants feel a wide range of emotions, but their behavior reamains constant. On the outside, happy and sad often look the same."

　　I can't remember the last time I had nothing to say about something. All this time, I thought Albert was the science guy with as much feeling as a pinecone. But I was wrong. All that watching he does. All that thinking. He really does understand things. He definitely gets me.

Fish in a Tree, P235
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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That Makes Us Each Great

　　Suki raises her hand. "Grandfather says everyone is unique. Special. Unlike all others, that makes us each great."

　　"I like that, Suki!" Mr. Daniel says. "And you are indeed great!"

　　She remains seated but bows a bit. "Thank you, Sir."

　　Mr. Daniels bows back and then stands up straight. "In fact, you're all great, my fantastic Fantasticos!"

　　Albert raises his hand and Mr. Daniels nods toward him. "Excuse me, but just because something is unique, that doesn't mean it's good. After all, E.coli, a dangerous bacteria, is unlike all others."

　　"Point taken, Albert, but I do like that people are all different. What if we all looked the same, thought the same, had the same beliefs?"

　　"That sounds boring," Keisha says.

　　"Indeed it does," he says.

　　I think that I wouldn't mind being more like everyone else. But then I think . . . I wouldn't want to draw like everyone else. And I wouldn't want to act like Shay. Or Jessica.

Fish in a Tree, P220-221
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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To be Careful with Eggs and Words

　　"People ask what you want to be when you grow up. I know what kind of grown-up I want to be. But I don't know who I am now." Albert stretches his legs out. "There are always people ready to tell you who you are, like a nerd or a jerk or a wimp."

　　I think how it's hard not to believe the bad stuff.

　　"Look at it this way," Albert says. "If you had to be in a tank of water with a killer whale of a stonefish, which would you choose?"

　　"Well, duh Who is going to choose a killer whale?"

　　"Well, in the wild, killer whales never attack people. Like never. A stonefish is way more dangerous with its thirteen venomous spines. It's the words. If the killer whale were called the friendly whale, no one would be scared."

　　And I think of words. The power they have. How they can be waved around like a wand - sometimes for good, like how Mr. Daniels uses them. How he makes kids like me and Oliver feel better about ourselves. And how words can be used for bad. To hurt.

　　My grandpa used to say to be careful with eggs and words, because neither can be fixed. The older I get, the more I realize how smart my grandpa was.

Fish in a Tree, P183-184
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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If Nobody's Perfect

　　"You say" - Albert adds and then pauses to think - "that you'll grow up to be nobody. But logically . . . if nobody's perfect . . . well then, you must be perfect."

　　"Perfect? Me? Uh . . . no," I say.

　　"You are pretty perfect, Ally," Keisha says, laughing. "Do like Mr. Daniels says. Be yourself. Be who you are."

　　"You know," Albert says, "I've wondered about that saying. And I can't ever find an answer anywhere on the Internet."

　　"What do you mean?" I ask.

　　"'Be yourself.' You always hear that."

　　"So?" Keisha asks.

　　"Well," Albert begins, "what if you don't know who you are?"

　　I get what he means, I think.

Fish in a Tree, P183
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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Sometimes They Just Can't Say Everything

　　I walk over to the garbage and drop it in. Watch it twist and spin as it falls. I look up and lock eyes with him and wish I had the words to tell him how grateful I am for his helping me. In this world of words, sometimes they just can't say everything.

Fish in a Tree, P176
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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Everyone is Smart in Different Ways

　　Mr. Daniels looks up at that bright blue sky and says, "Now, don't be so hard on yourself, okay?" You know, a wise person once said, 'Everyone is smart in different ways. But if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life thinking that it's stupid.'"

　　I think hard about that. Could it be that simple?

　　A mind movie flickers in my brain of an angry fish at the bottom of a tree, banging on the trunk with its fins and complaining that it can't climb it.

　　I think of a turtle making sandwich.

　　A snake playing the violin.

　　An elephant knitting.

　　Penguins playing basketball.

　　An eagle scuba diving.

　　... ...

Fish in a Tree, P158-159
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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Feeling Like Can't Reach Anything Anymore

　　Out of the room and out of the museum. A woman calls to me, but I keep going. Out the door and around the back. Across the lawn of a beautiful light green house. I find a swing set, which reminds me of my grandpa, and how we spent hours on them at the park. I try to think about what he'd say now and am sad that it's hard for me to remember his voice exactly.

　　My hands slide down the chains as I sit on the seat, thinking of when I was little. When my world wasn't such a heavy place. I used to love to swing as high as I could - leaning back, reaching for a bright blue sky with my feet - and it made me feel like I could do anything. Reach anything.

　　I lean my cheek against the cool chain, feeling like can't reach anything anymore. Then tears come.

Fish in a Tree, P155
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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The First American Spellers and Dictionaries

　　A lady talks about visionary Noah Webster was to create the first American spellers and dictionaries. Before that, people used to just make up spellings - there were no right or wrong ways to spell.

　　Some visionary. This spelling stuff is all his fault, since he's the one who got it in his head that we needed to spell the same way.

　　I'm thinking Noah Webster was a scoundrel and they should have put him in jail for this.

　　The lady tells us it took him twenty years to write the dictionary, and he also wrote the first schoolbooks and grammar books. I think he must have been tipped off rocker, as my grandpa used to say.

Fish in a Tree, P153-154
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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Wish Givers

　　I put my arms out like a tree and one, then two land on my arm. I love them. I never knew before how much I love butterflies.

　　I think about the story Albert told in social studies when we were studying Native Americans. He said that they believed butterflies were special creatures and wish givers. And that if you can catch a butterfly, whisper your deepest wish to it, and then set it free, it will carry your wish to the spirits, who will grant it.

　　... ...

Fish in a Tree, P117
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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Ice Cream on Ellis Island

　　"I don't believe in violence. And anyway, it seems to me that big kids would get the blame in a fight. No one's going to think a big kid like me didn't start it, so they would assume I give the punches, not receive them."

　　He stares at his vanilla ice cream and then looks up. Maybe a little happier. "This reminds me of ice cream on Ellis Island."

　　"You may have a skull full of brains, but, again, Albert . . . no sense," Keisha says.

　　"When the immigrants came to America through Ellis Island, they would sometimes get ice cream for a treat. But they didn't recognize ice cream. They thought it was butter, so they spread it on toast."

　　We laugh.

　　... ...

Fish in a Tree, P103
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6

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