we were out of the special hypoallergenic cat food that keeps Lady Jane healthy. Unfortunately, so was the local store, so I had to go a different store in an area of the city I rarely ever have cause to go to.  It wasn’t a fair distance away, but it felt like a pretty out-of-the-ordinary excursion.

I should probably have adventures more often.


Wynton Marsalis and Paul Roger’s Squeak, Rumble, Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! is appealing for young readers for many obvious reasons: the illustrations are bright and energetic; the book draws on onomatopoeia in a way that children are automatically drawn to; it’s fun to read aloud. The book points out the sounds we encounter in every day life (the scraping of a knife over toast, rumbling trucks, creaking door hinges, for example), and presents these sounds as different kinds of musical instruments. And intermingled with these everyday instruments are what we more conventionally think of as musical instruments: tubas, trumpets, saxophones basses, and violins — whose sounds the book also introduces to its readers. Children thus move from familiar everyday sounds (that become musical) to perthaps less familiar instruments (that enter into the realm of the everyday). The result is a fun harmonious celebration of all kinds of sounds and music!


Marsalis, Wynton. Illus Paul Rogers. Squeak, Rumble, Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Somerville, MA: Candlewick Press, 2012.

17 October 2014


Lemony Snicket.

I’ve loved Lemony Snicket for ages: ever since the (bad) beginning of the Series of Unfortunate Events. That series features not one but two female characters among its three protagonists, the Baudelaire children, and Violet, Klaus, and Sunny are independent, resourceful, intelligent, and courageous — usually more so than most of the adults they encounter. The series also challenges (though gently) the notion of simple divisions between good and evil. The children grow up to realise that people are complicated, as are the  circumstances that surround them. His books also champion all things literary and literate, including a diverse vocabulary (defined in context), references to literature (such as the Baudelaires’ very name, or codes slipped into T.S. Eliot poems), witty demonstrations of grammatical and literary devices, and a great love of libraries as the fragile epicentres of knowledge and peace.

His latest series includes all of these Snicket trademarks, though in a slightly different flavour. While the Series of Unfortunate events appears to be set in a pre-digital era (there are no cell phones but there are functioning telegraph machines — even if they’re a bit ancient by the time the Baudelaires happen upon them), the books in the All the Wrong Questions series are set in a world that feels like it could belong to thirties and forties (a sense that is heightened both by Seth’s cover art and chapter head drawings and by the “choose your own adventure” style videos released at the end of September). The temporal difference is of course accounted for by the fact that All the Wrong Questions details Lemony’s life early on in his VFD career (that is, pre-Baudelaires). But technological differences aside (we see a lot more typewriters and phonographs and roadsters in this series), we still get the sense that children are often much more astute and resourceful than adults: Lemony’s chaperone, Theodora S. Markson, is 52nd on a list of 52 chaperones, and has more hair and ego than sense; the Officers Mitchum are a husband and wife team who can’t stop bickering long enough to actually solve crimes, and just about every other adult Snicket and his friends run into proves blinded by their assumptions that adults are more trustworthy than children. The only adult who differs in this respect is, typically, a (sub) librarian, Dewey Dashiell (again putting forth the message that libraries are special places while simultaneously having fun with words).

The literary references are still here, but are often more oblique than in the Series of Unfortunate Events. Snicket usually describes books in a roundabout way, naming characters or storylines, but rarely any titles. Many of the books are the sorts that appear on curriculum reading lists in middle and secondary school, however; in the latest book, “Shouldn’t You Be in School?”, we have (amongst other works) Steinbeck’s The Red Pony (“A man gave his son Jody a pony, and Jody had to promise to take care of it. Then the pony got sick. I could see where this was going and put the book down”, 31), A Separate Peace (“Two guys are friends, supposedly, and then one of them tricks the other one and he falls out of a tree and breaks his leg. The moral of the story seems to be, some boys are mean at school. I don’t need a book to tell me that” (62-3), and A Wrinkle in Time (“There’s a book I really like … that begins on a dark and stormy night … I went through every detail, from the scientist who disappears mysteriously to the frighteningly intelligent boy, from the haunted house to the curious woman with the crystal ball to the terrifying black cloud and the brain that can talk all by itself”, 154). The periphrastic nature of the literary references in the All the Wrong Questions series adds an additional puzzle element to the books (besides the unfolding mystery of VFD, the ailing town of Stained-by-the-Sea, and villain Hangfire and his plots of poisoning, kidnapping, and arson). Readers can guess the books they’ve already read and easily look up the ones they haven’t.

In “Shouldn’t You Be in School?” we’re also introduced to a word game called “Beethoven” and to several new dishes of food (another similarity between the two book series). Snicket’s books never fail to be entertaining at the same time that they encourage being inquisitive about the world; they value learning and discovery, the thoughts of young people, and resourcefulness and confidence (since I read the first book, Who Could that Be at this Hour?”, I’ve often found myself reminding myself to follow Snicket’s advice and “get scared later” in the face of daunting tasks, 172).


Lemony Snicket: The Unauthorized Autobiography is a companion piece to  the Series of Unfortunate Events. The “unauthorized” nature of the book is carried out in humourous metatextual layers, with Daniel Handler introducing the book “as the official representative of Lemony Snicket in all legal, literary, and social matters” (ix) — Handler is, of course, the author of all the Snicket books. The chapters are made up of fragments of documents appearing to be written by Snicket himself, but of which the provenance is mysterious and garbled.

The “Autobiography” offers hints, jokes, and further mysteries about Snicket’s life and the fate of characters appearing in the Baudelaire case. As such, it will delight those who have been following the Baudelaire series (but likely confuse anyone who hasn’t yet read those earlier books).


Snicket’s File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents is another tie-in book — this time for the All the Wrong Questions series (though more accessible to non-readers of Snicket’s series). Purportedly a list of minor investigations that Snicket and Markson (but mostly Snicket of course) were involved in during their stay in Stained-by-the-Sea, the book references places like Parital Foods, Hungry’s Diner, and the Police Station, and characters like Theodora S. Markson, Jake Hungry, and the Officers Mitchum, that are important places and figures in the All the Wrong Questions books. The stories in the book are mini-mysteries in the style of Encyclopedia Brown: each chapter is a different “suspicious incident” where readers can try to guess the ending (answers at the end, of course, along with tantalising “solutions” to some extra cases). There’s also a reference to the Swinster Pharmacy!


Snicket’s enigmatic 29 Myths on the Swinster Pharmacy is aesthetically pleasing and compelling: the 29 statements, Lisa Brown’s accompanying illustrations, and dustcover that unfolds into an incompletely marked map prompt the imagination more than they tell us anything firm about the Swinster Pharmacy. (We do know that the Swinster Pharmacy is a bit of a dubious place though.)


In sum, go read some Snicket. And then tell me if you know what the “Last Word” at the end of the 13 Suspicious Incidents is.

11 October 2014


Snicket, Lemony. Illus. Seth. “Who Could That Be at This Hour?” Toronto: HarperCollins, 2012.

Snicket, Lemony. Illus. Seth. “When Did You See Her Last?” Toronto: HarperCollins, 2013.

Snicket, Lemony. Illus. Seth. “Shouldn’t You Be in School?” Toronto: HarperCollins, 2014.

Snicket, Lemony. Illus. Seth. File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents. Toronto: HarperCollins, 2014.

Snicket, Lemony. Illus. “Some of the photographs in this book were taken by Julie Blattberg”. Lemony Snicket: The Unauthorized Autobiography. New York: HarperCollins, 2002.

Snicket, Lemony. Illus. Lisa Brown. 29 Myths on the Swinster Pharmacy. California: McSweeney’s McMullens, 2014.


Melissa Guion’s Baby Penguins Everywhere offers a lovely way for parents to talk to children (probably about 3-5 years) about why mothers (and everyone else) sometimes need time alone. Guion’s illustrations are bright, cheerful, funny, and full of energy: baby penguins leap from a magician’s hat and run amok playing various games (tug-of-war with a magicians scarf, juggling, skipping rope, climbing to the top of mama penguin’s head, etc) and generally causing chaos. The pictures convey the hectic busyness of the mama penguin, making it clear why she needs some time to herself.

The book is engaging, with the illustrations of the recto side of the pages prompting questions in its young readers (“where is the mummy going?”) only to answer those questions on the verso (“off by herself for a little while”). It also conveys the mother’s feelings (of being tired and overwhelmed) very very clearly, in ways that children can probably learn to recognise in their own parents. But the book is also very gentle in its message — despite her need for space sometimes, mama clearly loves her newfound charges, and though she goes away to rest when she gets tired, she returns quite soon, ready to play with the baby penguins again.

10 October 2014


Guion, Melissa. Baby Penguins Everywhere. New York: Philomel Books, 2012.

Here Comes the Cat!

I thought, when coming to Vladimir Vagin and Frank Asch’s’s Here Comes the Cat! that I was discovering something new — but I was really encountering at last a delightful American-Russian collaboration from twenty five years ago. Vagin and Asch’s book is another example of words and images working together beautifully to tell a story. As in Klassen’s This Is Not My Hat, the story functions as a book-long joke, with the exclamatory titular words and accompanying pictures of agitated mice (in a town in which the chief residents are all mice) seeming to suggest a predictable sort of cat-and-mouse narrative. When the cat finally arrives it does so in a surprising fashion. I won’t spoil the ending, but I loved the last three pictures in particular.

The book is, appropriately, bilingual, with all text given first in English and then in Russian. There isn’t much text altogether — mainly the repeated phrase “here comes the cat” as the little mouse announcing the impending feline runs all through mouse town, giving warning to all the residents. Occasionally, a ladybug in the illustration will say “hello/привет” or the signs on the buildings will be in both languages. For children of a reading/writing-learning age, it’s kind of a neat and approachable way of showing that different countries have different kinds of letters, without the fact becoming distracting.

I should also mention that the illustrations are gorgeous: a cross between a comic style and watercolours in a warm and vivid palette. In the version I found in my local book store, the dust jacket also doubled as a fold-out poster, so children can enjoy Vagin’s art even when they aren’t reading.

17 December 2013 ~ Hamilton


Asch, Frank and Vladimir Vagin. Here Comes the Cat!/Сюда Идет Кот! San Francisco: McSweeny’s, 2011.

A fishy tale.

A friend reminded me recently how much I love Jon Klassen’s This Is Not My Hat, a book which demonstrates very clearly that in picture books the illustrations are often doing at least half the work of telling the story (one of the reasons illustrators should be listed as prominently as authors). Klassen’s story is told from the first-person (er, first-poisson?) perspective of a tiny fish who has stolen a tiny hat from another fish — who, from a reader’s perspective, seems worrisomely enormous. The joke that runs through story, however, is that the brazen hat-stealing fish, who thinks he’s getting away with his crime, isn’t so clever after all. All of the little fish’s assertions (that the enormous fish won’t wake up and notice his hat has disappeared, and that even if he does wake up he won’t be able to find the fishy thief, etc) are belied by the accompanying illustrations showing the big fish waking up and setting off on a direct course after the culprit. The pictures don’t just show what the words say — a visual mirror of the verbal text — rather they tell the second part of the story going on literally behind the tiny fish’s back. And they do so hilariously. I read this book to about four other adults before reading it to a friend’s three-year-old child, and all the adults laughed to see the reactions of the big fish with his expressive eyeball, rolling upwards to his hatless head, and narrowing as he closes in on the unsuspecting thief. My favourite illustration in the book is one where a tattle-tale crab who witnessed the little fish passing by fearfully points the way to the thief’s hiding place.

The combination of illustration and text work together beautifully and subtly on different levels. Very small readers can follow the story of the fish who tries to steal a hat but ultimately gets caught on their own, or adults can read with them, pointing to the illustrations and asking whether the things the little fish is saying are true; older children and adults will, I expect, enjoy the animals’ hilarious facial expressions and the book’s darkly comic ending. (This ending is another brilliant aspect of the book: the final few illustrations hint at a somewhat tragic end for the little fish, but they are also subtle and innocuous enough to be interpreted more cheerily by younger readers who may not want their tiny anti-hero to be eaten.)

16 December 2013 ~ Hamilton


Klassen, Jon. This Is Not My Hat. Somerville, MA: Candlewick Press, 2012.

Charles and Emma.

Deborah Heiligman’s Charles and Emma is probably one my favourite biographies from this year. Heiligman draws from the Darwins’ correspondence, journals, and published documents in order to tell the fascinating story of Charles and Emma’s marriage and working life. Her portrayal of their relationship is insightful and amusing, littered with delightful episodes, such when she reveals that the couple’s beloved daughter Annie used to play with Charles’s hair as he worked, or when she recounts an episode when Charles tried to enforce one of the house rules:

In 1855, when Lenny was about five, Charles walked in to find his son jumping up and down and tumbling all over a new sofa.

“Oh Lenny, Lenny,” Charles said. “You know it is against all rules.”

“Then,” Lenny said to his papa, “I think you’d better go out of the room.”

And so Charles did. (161)

At the outset I had hoped that Emma’s half of the story would be more about her as an individual rather than as she contributed to Charles’s life and research, but perhaps this was wanting something contradictory to Emma’s real life. She seems to have earnestly devoted most her adult life to raising the Darwins’ children and to editing and reading Charles’s work. In many ways Charles and Emma’s marriage typifies nineteenth-century English gender dynamics, with Emma as a dutiful  wife and mother and Charles as the published and respected gentleman scholar. And Heiligman does retell the story of Charles’s infamous marry/not marry list, with its ultimate observation that a wife was an “object to be loved and played with … better than a dog anyhow” (14). I also found disturbing the fact that Charles’s father, upon learning that Charles was questioning his religious beliefs instructed his son “when you find the woman you want to marry, don’t tell her!” (27) (fortunately Charles decided not to follow that advice). Victorian patriarchy is in full operation in these moments.

But Heiligman also beautifully carries out her central task of showing how the couple negotiated the poles of their beliefs, Christianity (Emma) and atheism (Charles). Emma’s personality reveals itself most clearly through her faith: she seems to have been more than capable of holding her own in the thoughtful and lively discussions that were ongoing in the Darwin household (Heiligman attributes her aptitude for argument to the influence of her upbringing by Josiah and Bessy Wedgwood, who insisted that their children learn to explore and articulate different “principles”, 30). Emma, in Heiligman’s portrayal, would read Charles’s empirically-based theories and offer rebuttals or critical interrogations in return. In turn, Charles tried to negotiate his wife’s faith with his own beliefs; additionally he recognised that Emma’s hesitations would be those of the Christian members of his reading audience (123), and thus responded to her arguments seriously, developing his own theories more carefully as a result.

Heiligman certainly convinces her readers that Emma a great deal of influence on Charles’s life and his work, and she does so in a way that is entirely readable to her young adult audience, conveying both the religious and scientific atmosphere of nineteen-century England and the complicated process of negotiating faith and science generally in a lively and engaging manner.

11 December 2013 ~ Hamilton

Works Cited.

Heiligman, Deborah. Charles and Emma: The Darwins’ Leap of Faith. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2009.

Beatrix Potter.

Beatrix’s Potter’s stories for children are still some of my favourites. One of the reasons her books are so appealing is the sense that each of her animal characters belongs to a completely developed world. Her animal heroes weave in and out of each other’s narratives: we see Peter lose his coat and shoes in Mr McGregor’s garden in the very first book, and then read about Peter and cousin Benjamin’s adventures rescuing his clothes in “The Tale of Benjamin Bunny”. Later, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, the hedgehog laundress, washes Peter’s coat handkerchief, which “did so smell of onions” (94) — because Peter and Benjamin used it to carry the onions they stole from the McGregors’ garden back to their homes. Benjamin and Peter’s sister Flopsy end up married, and their children, the Flopsy Bunnies are twice kidnapped — first in “The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies”, when Mr McGregor pulls the drowsy bunnies from his lettuce patch and plans to put them into a pie (just as their grandfather once was), and next by the badger Tommy Brock in “The Tale of Mr. Tod”, who also means to serve them up for his lunch. Thomasina Tittlemouse helps the bunnies escape in the “Flopsy Bunnies” before appearing as the main character in “The Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse”. Peter and his sisters appear again in “The Tale of Ginger and Pickles” (the story that falls between the “Flopsy Bunnies” and “Mrs. Tittlemouse”). Indeed, a number of the animals from Potter’s stories turn up to buy goods from Ginger and Pickles’s shop, including Jemima Puddleduck, Samuel Whiskers, Jeremy Fisher, Sally Henny Penny, the two bad mice, Thomasina Tittlemouse, and Tabitha Twitchet (cousin of Ribby in “The Tale of the Pie and the Patty Pan” and the mother of the infamous Tom Kitten). It’s great fun to follow the daily adventures of all these characters, who develop and grow more idiosyncratic as they appear and reappear, and of whom it’s easy to grow fond.

Another reason I love Potter’s stories so much is the way that she captures in both illustrations and writing the animal-ness of her heroes. Potter is famous for having had numerous pets all her life, as well as living closely with them on her farm in Sawrey (she was also a keen mycologist!). Her familiarity with the animals with whom she shared her life shows beautifully in the stories as she captures the audacious and obnoxious chattering of squirrels like Nutkin (with his teasing poems); the timid-yet-determined busyness of mice like Thomasina Tittlemouse; the hapless clumsiness of ducks like Jemima, and (my favourite) the hilarious disorder of kittens like Tom and his sisters.

In “The Tale of Tom Kitten” (page 150 in my volume, but probably around page 7 in the small individual books) Potter painted a perfect emblem of “kitten”. In it, Tabitha Twitchet brushes her daughter Mittens’s fur while Tom, in true kitten form, bats mischievously at her through the arms, legs, and back of the chair while Moppet looks on in timid fascination. Even though mama Tabitha is dressed in proper twentieth-century English dress, apron, and petticoats — and tries to make her children wear clean frocks — the characters are cats through and through.

I also love the little jokes Potter slips in occasionally: for example, the appearance of Sir Isaac Newton and Ptolemy Tortoise in the amphibian/reptilian world of Jeremy Fisher.

Potter seems to have lived a fascinating life, and I’d like to read more about her. I’m pleased her books have remained as lively as they ever were.


Before I leave Potter for good, a brief excerpt from one of her novels, The Fairy Caravan:

Tuppenny was a short-haired guinea-pig of dilapidated appearance. he suffered from toothache and chilblains; and he had never had much hair, not even of the shortest. It was thin and patchy. Whether this was the result of chilblains or ill-treatment is uncertain. he was an object, whatever the cause. Obviously he was a suitable subject for experiment. …  So Henry P. and nine other guinea pigs bought a bottle [of hair tonic] and ran in a twittering crowd towards Tuppenny’s house. On the way they overtook Tuppenny going home. They explained to him that out of sympathy they had subscribed for a bottle of moonshine to cure his toothache and chilblains, and that they would rub it on for him as Mrs. Tuppenny was out.

Tuppenny was too depressed to argue; he allowed himself to be led away. Henry P. and the nine other guine pigs poured the whole bottleful over Tuppenny, and put him to bed. (13-15)

Thinking about the opening chapter The Fairy Caravan, I had thought I might write a short musing on the misfortunes of guinea pigs in children’s literature. But then I could only think of two such instances of cavy-related adversity: the first is Potter’s Tuppenny and the second the little guinea pigs on whom Digory’s Uncle Andrew conducts his magic tests in The Magician’s Nephew (“Some of them only died. Some exploded like little bombs.” 21). The fates of all but one of Uncle Andrew’s guinea pigs are rather dire, but Tuppenny’s hirsute misfortunes resolve quite happily when Tuppenny runs away from his hometown of Marmalade and ends up living quite happily — with a full head of well-groomed hair at long last — with the travelling troupe of animals who make up the fairy caravan. The only other literary guinea pig I could think of was Bond’s charmingly audacious Olga da Polga, whose life is full of adventures, but devoid of real misfortune. The moral of this story is that guinea pigs should probably steer clear of suspect literary magicians. And maybe other guinea pigs — cowardly common short-haired guinea pigs and the contemptuous upper-class “Abyssinian Cavies” alike. And the town of Marmalade in the “Land of Green Ginger” (9); the guinea pigs there have some class antagonisms to work out.

I liked The Fairy Caravan quite a lot, though not quite as much as her individual stories. I also suspect much of my delight at the novel is probably heavily influenced by the many common guinea pigs I’ve met in my lifetime. Potter knew just as much about guinea pigs as she did about kittens. An endearing lot.

9 December 2013 ~ Hamilton

(Afternote: one of my guinea pigs was a little albino cavy I adopted from a lab and named Job — a joke that exactly one other person got. Poor Job.)

Works Cited.

Lewis, C.S. The Magician’s Nephew. New York: Scholastic, 1955.

Potter, Beatrix. The Complete Tales. Ed. Frederick Warne & Co.[?]. London: Penguin, 2006.

—–. The Fairy Caravan. London and New York: Frederick Warne & Co., 1972.

Virginia Wolf.

“If I were flying, I would travel to a perfect place. A place with frosted cakes and beautiful flowers and excellent trees to climb and absolutely no doldrums.”

“Where is that?” I asked.

She thought for a moment and said, “Bloomsberry, of course.” (15)

Virginia Wolf is, without hesitation, my favourite picture book. Isabella Arseneault’s watercolour-and-gauche illustrations are gorgeous: all at once soft, vivid, and a stark juxtaposition of black and white and colour. They convey absolutely the deep sadness and gloom of Virginia’s “wolfishness”, Vanessa’s sorrow for her sister’s pain, and the happiness of the country of “Bloomsberry” which the sisters create. In her narrative, Kyo Maclear has drawn on details of the Woolf sisters’ childhood and adult lives to create a beautiful story of sisterly love, of depression, and of the healing that painting and writing can effect. The book also quietly acknowledges the different ways one expresses feeling depressed, that young people too can feel doldrums, and offers suggestions about what to do when feeling “wolfish”. I love this book so very much.

22 April 2013 ~ Hamilton


Maclear, Kyo and Isabella Arseneault. Virginia Wolf. Toronto: Kids Can Press, 2012.



In Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman brings back echoes of his humourous characterisations of Loki, Thor, and Odin from his American Gods (though the three Norse gods are slightly more polite, for the sake of Odd‘s younger readers). I rather liked the ending for the way it frames Odd as a hero as much influenced by his mother as by the memory of his father.

I rather liked all of it, of course. It’s funny in a typically Gaiman fashion, and Brett Helquist’s drawing sulky bear-Thor, complete with crossed arms, is truly delightful.

21 April 2013 ~ Hamilton


Gaiman, Neil. Odd and the Frost Giants. Illus. Brett Helquist. New York: Harper, 2009.

Mice and Mouse.

Mr Maxwell’s Mouse and Mrs Marlowe’s Mice are two of the most engaging children’s “picture” books I’ve read lately. Both stories manage to be endearing, amusing, and slightly dreadful: a mix that ultimately makes for a tense but compelling story. Devin Asch’s illustrations combining detailed realism and noir-esque style are a picture-perfect match for this narrative tension. The first book, Mr Maxwell’s Mouse, is more overtly horrific: a story about a cat ordering a live mouse at a posh restaurant, and the mouse’s attempts to argue his way out of being eaten. (One of the pictures shows the adorable mouse lying on a piece of toast with the knife an fork hanging over him.) Mrs Marlowe’s Mice exudes a more subtle horror, as the eponymous Marlowe is investigated for being a reported “mouse-keeper” (a cat who harbours mice in her home for purposes other than eating).

Both books emphasise the undercurrent of dread through the sparse directness with which they tell their stories. There are no wasted words and no wasted space in the narrative. To borrow from dramatic terms, both plots are tightly unified in terms of place and time: the narrative action of Mr Maxwell is limited to one lunch hour in the “Paw and Claw” restaurant, while that of Mrs Marlowe is limited to one evening in her home. Yet the books convey the sense of a detailed and completely developed world behind these concentrated scenes: a world in which some individuals have more power than other, in which tolerance is not encouraged, and in which the smaller, weaker mice are always in peril. These themes make sense given that the world is one run by cats — creatures who do tend, in reality, to torment mice and gobble them up. And the almost-comic antagonism between cats and mice is what keeps the books from being truly frightening (and, indeed, what makes them funny, along with the fact that the mice always win the day). The darker edge to both stories, however, can’t be overlooked — and perhaps have something to say about the way power works.

What really makes the books endearing is the way that not all cats are merciless, unfriendly, or uncaring. Some, like Mr Maxwell, feel badly for their dinners — and some, like Mrs Marlowe, are courageous and loyal, even if it means breaking the rules of catdom and risking their own safety.

20 April 2013 ~ Hamilton


Asch, Frank and Devin Asch. Mr Maxwell’s Mouse. Toronto: Kids Can Press, 2004.

—–. Mrs Marlowe’s Mice. Toronto: Kids Can Press, 2007.