Books with title Our Friend The Sun -

I am the sun. How proud I feel when I see the reflection of my beauty in the waves of the sea and the gleam I make on the leaves as they hang from the trees. I feel especially proud of how I have helped the people, plants, and animals grow in the Town of Madison. But the town takes me for granted. What if I were to go away? Then they would see how important I am.

From the beloved husband-and-wife team of The Gardener, a Caldecott Honor BookAnnabelle Bernadette Clementine DoddWas a good little girl, though decidedly odd.Belle lived every day as if she were grown --She thought she could do everything all on her own.Lucky for Belle, she has a friend at home, a caregiver named Beatrice Smith -- Bea -- who keeps a close eye on her so she doesn't get into too much mischief. Through the week Belle helps Bea as she does chores or shops or bakes, and at the end of most days they head to the beach -- Belle and Bea, hand in hand, by the sea. But one afternoon Belle sneaks outside to play all alone, and something happens that changes her life forever. A lyrical rhymed text and pictures that pack emotion combine to present powerful portraits of a girl and her loving guardian.

Pelléas had a great bulging, powerful forehead, like that of Socrates or Verlaine; and, under a little black nose, blunt as a churlish assent, a pair of large hanging and symmetrical chops, which made his head a sort of massive, obstinate, pensive and three-cornered menace. He was beautiful after the manner of a beautiful, natural monster that has complied strictly with the laws of its species. And what a smile of attentive obligingness, of incorruptible innocence, of affectionate submission, of boundless gratitude and total self-abandonment lit up, at the least caress, that adorable mask of ugliness! Whence exactly did that smile emanate? From the ingenuous and melting eyes? From the ears pricked up to catch the words of man? From the forehead that unwrinkled to appreciate and love, or from the stump of a tail that wriggled at the other end to testify to the intimate and impassioned joy that filled his small being, happy once more to encounter the hand or the glance of the god to whom he surrendered himself?

I have lost, within these last few days, a little bull-dog. He had just completed the sixth month of his brief existence. He had no history. His intelligent eyes opened to look out upon the world, to love mankind, then closed again on the cruel secrets of death. The friend who presented me with him had given him, perhaps by antiphrasis, the startling name of Pelléas. Why rechristen him? For how can a poor dog, loving, devoted, faithful, disgrace the name of a man or an imaginary hero? Pelléas had a great bulging, powerful forehead, like that of Socrates or Verlaine; and, under a little black nose, blunt as a churlish assent, a pair of large hanging and symmetrical chops, which made his head a sort of massive, obstinate, pensive and three-cornered menace. He was beautiful after the manner of a beautiful, natural monster that has complied strictly with the laws of its species.