by Ruskin Bond
Cricket Magazine Group is proud to partner with Worldreader to make this collection of stories, specially selected from Cricket® magazine, available via e-reader to young people throughout the developing world—where having a book to read has often been just a dream.
The Realm of Imagination: Favorite Stories from Cricket® Magazine
by Cricket Media
© 2011 Carus Publishing Company
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The selections in this collection were first published in Cricket® magazine.
ISBN: 978-08126-2779-4
Cover and interior design by Kristen Scribner
Bug characters by Carolyn Digby Conahan
CRICKET and its logo are registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
Cricket Media
Carus Publishing Company
70 East Lake Street, Suite 300
Chicago, IL 60601
www.cricketmag.com
Acknowledgments at the end of this book constitute an extension of this copyright page.
Contents
Copyright
Welcome to
Cricket: The Realm of Imagination
Cricket Country
by Carolyn Digby Conahan
Cowgirl Morning
by Bryn Fleming
Time of Proving
by Tamora Pierce
Boarding School
by Timothy Tocher
Old Cricket Says
“Mongolian Mobile Library”
The Herdboys of Lesotho
by Sue Drake
Tara
by Sujata Shekar
White Mice
by Ruskin Bond
Old Cricket Says
“Porcupines and Salt”
Boo
by Tom Brennan
Ahimsa
by Josie Tagliente
The Pride
by Paul Sullivan
Mantrap
by Tish Farrell
Winning
by Joseph Yenkavitch
The Eighteenth Camel
by Thelma Schmidhauser
The Camel and Hassan Djiwa
by Stephen Davies
Old Cricket Says
“Inside a Beaver Lodge”
Cricket Country
by Carolyn Digby Conahan
My Corner
by Jennifer Szostak
Gordon Parks: Bigger than LIFE
by Ann Parr
Instead of the War Drum
by Uma Krishnaswami
The Telescope
by Lisa Harries Schumann
The Tale of Paddy Ahern
retold by Patricia McHugh
The Explorer
by Christy Lenzi
Swing It! The Story of Peg Leg Bates
by Darienne Oaks
Little Brother of War
by Judy Dodge Cummings
Beyond the Call of Duty
by Brenda Moore
A Driftwood’s Tale
by Shirley Ann Hoskins
The Traveler
by Connie Martin
Old Cricket Says
“Methusaleh Tree”
Acknowledgments
Welcome to
Since its first issue in 1973, Cricket magazine has cherished the goal of bringing the beauty, integrity, and humor of the world’s best stories to young people everywhere. In The Realm of Imagination you will find realistic stories about kids in America and around the world, as well as inspiring tales of true adventure, fantasy, and science fiction. With comments from Cricket’s irrepressible bug characters, these stories will excite your imagination and curiosity—and often, make you laugh.
Worldreader is a nonprofit organization with the mission of putting a library of digital books in the hands of underserved children and families in the developing world, where printed materials are expensive or unavailable. Partnering with publishers and government institutions to provide e-readers and content, its efforts are currently focused on rural schools in Ghana and Kenya.
With Worldreader, Cricket Magazine Group enthusiastically embraces the dream of books for all.
Learn more about Cricket Magazine Group at:
http://www.cricketmag.com
Subscribe to Cricket magazine at:
http://www.cricketmag.com/CKT-CRICKET-Magazine-for-Kids-ages-9-14
See a sample issue of Cricket at (Flash Player required):
http://www.cricketmag.com/534-Online-Samples
Learn more about Worldreader at:
http://www.worldreader.org
Cricket Country
Cowgirl Morning
by Bryn Fleming
Illustrated by Ned Gannon
“Cassie!” Fran shouted. “The cows aren’t going to milk themselves. Get a move on!” My older sister tossed the words over her shoulder as she stamped up our dirt driveway, her skirt blue as a cornflower, her boot heels leaving little prints like a deer’s hooves in the brown dust.
I stood watching the yellow school bus pull away from our place. The road ran so flat to the east, I could see the dust cloud for a mile if I watched long enough. The afternoon sun soaked bright green through the oak leaves, and I’d have liked to sit awhile. School had been confounding, which was nothing new. But Fran was right. Ranch life was pretty much composed of endless chores.
I shook my head clear and settled my hat low on my forehead, one-handed, like the movie cowboys do when they have their other hand on the reins. I started toward the house. Maybe I was lazy like Fran always said. It was another thing to think about.
To the west, Mr. Daly’s semi-tame buffaloes heaved and snorted in the bunch grass. Fran never gave them a look, but I kept an eye out for Cyrus, the bull. Sure enough, he jerked his big head at me from his spot under the oak. His horns caught the low sun, and I flinched, despite myself. It came back to me every time I saw him or smelled his musky wildness: Pa and I kneeling in the half dark of Daly’s muddy calving yard, pulling a stubborn calf from its bawling mother; Cyrus banging his shaggy head, over and over, against the gray plank fence shuddering between us.
Fran and I didn’t talk much more that day, just glared at each other across the supper table. Pa looked from one of his daughters to the other and shook his head, probably wishing he’d had boys. Then again, sometimes his eyes went soft when he looked at us, like he saw a bit of Mom there. I was glad for that. Mom had gotten ill and passed away the year that I turned nine. I’d only lately started filling in the space she’d left in me.
Neither Fran or I had done more than pick at our burgers when Pa said, “You’re both excused — to finish your chores.” I cleared my dishes and slammed the screen door.
Fran had already pitched the hay down, as nice and neat as you can pitch hay, into each manger. The cows munched while I rested my head on the their warm flanks, listening to the milk sing into the metal bucket. I only slopped a little when I emptied each bucketful into the big tin milk can. Fran would skim the cream later. As she says, it’s not a job for the careless, as cream is money and doesn’t belong on the barn floor.
I cleaned up at the kitchen sink and fell into bed, hanging my hat on the bedpost. I dropped off quick, leaving school, cows, chores, and dust for a deep warm dream, something about a wild, white horse.
Bang! Bang! Bang! I jerked awake to Pa pounding on our door.
“Daly’s buffaloes broke the fence. We have to get them out of the alfalfa!” he shouted.
Fran was on her feet in
an instant. Pulling her jeans on under her nightgown, she stepped into the hall. “Can’t we do it, just us, Pa? Cassie will only be in the way.”
“Both of you,” Pa said as he hurried for the back door. “We need all hands.”
Me, I’ve never liked being yanked out of a hard sleep and a good dream. I heard buffaloes through my sleep-haze and scrunched lower under the covers, remembering Cyrus’s chuffing breath on my neck and the creaking whine of fence planks. I grumped and groaned when Fran pulled the quilt off me and slapped my feet.
“Let’s go, Cassie. Pa needs us quick.” Fran jerked on her boots and slapped my feet again as she raced out of the room.
I pulled yesterday’s jeans from the pile of clothes by my bed, shrugged into a T-shirt, and grabbed my hat off the bedpost. Pa had a pan of cold biscuits and a dish of butter on the table. I gobbled one as I ran for the barn.
Fran was drawing up Pet’s cinch in the stable yard. Stars were fading in the east as the sky lightened over the Blue Mountains. The autumn air smelled of sage and juniper scrub. My lungs sucked it in like cold water.
Rowdy, my paint pony, stamped in his stall and nickered after Pet. The early morning darkness and close scent of musky buffaloes set him on edge, but I talked him into standing quiet and slipped the bit in his mouth. He pranced and high-stepped as I led him out of his stall to saddle him. I turned the stirrup to me, and swung up on his back with a satisfying squeak of leather, the soft feel of the reins in my hand.
“Your cinch is loose,” Fran called to me as she trotted after Pa. I moved my leg back and pulled the leather strap tighter without getting off.
Up ahead Pa was edging his mare around the wide gate to the open pasture. Fran and Pet followed. I leaned out and hooked the gate closed behind us, something Rowdy and I had been working on. I patted his neck. “Atta boy, let’s go get those buffs.” There was a shakiness in my voice, but I squeezed Rowdy into a lope to catch up.
“Looks like half the herd is in here,” Pa shouted. “Big piece of the north fence is down.” We stood a minute on the rise between the hayfield and the house. Thirty or forty buffaloes spread out in the tall grass.
“There’s Cyrus. Watch him.” Pa pointed to a huge, dark shape shifting like a hill in an earthquake. “I’ll pick him up and head him back through,” Pa said. “Some of the cows should follow. Fran, take the right.” He ran his gaze over the herd again. “Cassie, hang back. Move any stragglers up toward Fran. And stay away from Cyrus.” He didn’t need to tell me twice.
Pa reined toward the herd. The heavy, dark smell of buffaloes rose from the green patches of alfalfa as I followed Fran into the hayfield. Pet and Rowdy snorted, their bits jingling as they tossed their heads.
Fran loped off, whooping and chasing the cow buffs toward the hole in the far fence. Rowdy and I crisscrossed the field after strays. “Hut! Hut! Hut!” I called as I swung the end of my rope at a cow’s flank. Fran shot me a look. “Get after those buffs, Cassie. You’re not inviting them to a party!” I hollered louder and swung my rope harder. On the other side of the field, Pa had Cyrus headed back toward the broken fence.
Seems like I looked away toward a hawk screech for only a second when I heard Pa’s mare whinny sharply. I snapped my head around quick. She was rearing up in high alarm and stepping backward. Pa wasn’t in the saddle.
Cyrus pawed the dirt in front of the mare, swinging his big woolly head from side to side, his horns low to the ground The mare spun off and stood stiff-legged. Pa sat in the dirt with one leg stretched out in front of him. Cyrus flared his nostrils, sucking in Pa’s scent.
In my mind I heard a plank fence splinter and smelled Cyrus’s angry stink. I shivered, but there really was no choice. I kicked Rowdy and laid the reins across his neck. Rowdy jumped to it as Cyrus scraped the dirt powerfully with his sharp hooves and charged.
For such cumbersome-looking beasts, buffs can move real fast. I leaned forward in the saddle, racing Rowdy across the field toward Pa, hoping we’d be in time to head off the enraged bull. As Cyrus closed in, I shouted and waved my hat frantically. Cyrus jerked his head toward us and turned as Pa rolled out of his way.
Rowdy stopped on a dime, like he faced a mad buffalo bull every day. We dodged in close, and I leaned out and slapped Cyrus’s rump with my hat while Rowdy danced out of reach of his horns. Cyrus left Pa in a whirl of dust and pounded after us.
My hat flew off as Rowdy sprinted over the field. We cut a sharp right at the broken fence, and Cyrus plunged through the gap. A dozen cows streamed after him with Fran at their rear. She let out a whoop and flashed me a grin. We’d done it!
As I rode back, Pa was trying to get his feet under him. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were narrowed. “Good work, Cass,” he said. His voice shook, and he held his leg with both hands. I swung down next to him.
Fran hung at the fence gap, flapping her rope against her thigh and yelling at the last of the cows as they trailed after Cyrus. Two of Daly’s men galloped up the fence line toward Fran, and I heard her shout to them as she waved toward the herd and then toward us. The taller of the two dropped off his big, spotted mare at the broken fence, and the other rode toward us with Fran. By the time they’d crossed the field, I’d pulled Pa up. He stood crooked on one leg, leaning hard on my shoulder. I stood about a foot shorter than Pa, but I felt strong and tall with him leaning on me like that.
“Can you walk back?” I asked him. Pa’s mouth was clamped tight, and his face was whitish.
“It’s twisted badly, but I don’t think it’s broken,” he said through his teeth. “I’ll make it.”
Daly’s man got off his horse and took Pa’s other arm. We started a slow shamble across the field. Fran followed, leading the horses, as we straggled over the rise and back to the house. We settled Pa on the couch, and Fran put the coffeepot on. I called the doctor from the kitchen phone. Full light streamed through the window. I felt like a day and a half had passed since my feet had hit the cold floor boards before dawn.
Dr. Moss came around and said Pa’s knee was sprained badly but nothing was broken. Fran brought them both coffee. She got a cup for herself and even one for me. “Cassie pretty much saved the day,” Fran said, and she told Dr. Moss the story. Pa smiled at me, and I smiled at the floor.
After the doctor left, I walked back through the alfalfa and found my hat where I’d dropped it. The grass lay trampled and pawed up. I remembered the sharp glint in Cyrus’s eye when he’d aimed his horns at my father. I felt a rush of pride in my chest, but pushed it down. Anybody would have done what Rowdy and I did, if they’d needed to. Still, I felt taller as I dusted my hat on my jeans and walked back over the rise.
Time of Proving
by Tamora Pierce
Illustrated by jada rowland
Arimu of the Wind People was halfway through her Year of Proving when she found the creature at the bottom of a Dustlands canyon. She was on her way back to her camp with combs of honey when she heard a roaring moan. Since she was a careful girl, she tethered her camels in a safe place, then went to see what made such an unearthly noise.
There, in a stream, she discovered what looked like a bull wearing blue silk drapes and brass trinkets. He lay there as if he’d been thrown from the cliffs as a sacrifice to the gods. But that made no sense. Arimu knew this country. No one lived here to make any sacrifices.
She approached the bull, her spear raised. He looked half-dead — she would put him out of his misery. A crippled animal would never survive here.
The bull turned his head. Arimu froze. He glared straight at her. When could a bull look a human straight in the eye?
He croaked something, as if he spoke to her.
Nonsense, Arimu told herself. Bulls can’t talk!
The bull made other noises. These, too, sounded like speech.
“Stop it,” she ordered, before she realized she talked to him as she would a human.
She had heard stories of bull people. His feet were humanlike and bl
eeding from cuts. So were his hands. His chest was powerful, to hold up his large head. And now she understood the problem with his eyes. They pointed forward like a human’s.
The blue silk rags had once been embroidered trousers and a jacket. The many rings on his horns were gold, not brass. Some were jeweled. He was no sacrifice. No one threw gold and gems into a canyon.
He was still talking. Finally he spoke in a market language she knew. “Help … me. Please.”
Arimu scratched her head. How could she explain? She doubted he knew the customs of the Dustlands nomads. Someone of her tribe would have mentioned knowing bull-men or cow-women.
“You … understand,” he said, and coughed. “I beg you, by the laws that govern all civilized people, to help me.” He spat into the dust. “You are civilized, are you not?”
Arimu leaned on her spear. “I am civilized by the laws of the Wind People, the children of the Dustlands,” she replied. “Who are your people? How did you get here?”