Innholdsfortegnelse for April 2022 i Cricket Magazine Fiction and Non-Fiction Stories for Children and Young Teens

When the pale moon hides and the wild wind wails,And over the tree-tops the nighthawk sails,The gray wolf sits on the world’s far rim,And howls: and it seems to comfort him. The wolf is a lonely soul, you see,No beast in the wood, nor bird in the tree,But shuns his path; in the windy gloomThey give him plenty, and plenty of room. So he sits with his long, lean face to the skyWatching the ragged clouds go by.There in the night, alone, apart,Singing the song of his lone, wild heart. Far away, on the world’s dark rimHe howls, and it seems to comfort him.…

LZZIE STEPPED OUT of the low-roofed sod house and scanned the prairie sky. Dark clouds, purple as bruises, loomed up in the west. Any minute it would start raining, and Pa had said that the sheep would drown if the creek rose before they could get them moved. Cold drops began falling hard as she ran to hitch up Midnight and Star. But as usual, Hank was ahead of her. “Got the horses hitched.” The hired hand smirked at her from the wagon seat, his bright red shirt gleaming even in the dim light. “I figured you’d take all day doing it.” He whistled, and Tam, the sheep dog, jumped into the back of the wagon. “You know, if your pa hadn’t broken his arm, Tam and I wouldn’t even…

SOME OF MY dearest friends are crows. Yes, I know that farmers don’t like crows and get mad at them for pulling up tender corn shoots. On the other hand, during one season on an average farm, crows gobble up some nineteen bushels of harmful insects. So, maybe it all sort of balances out. Of the same family as jays, ravens, magpies, rooks, and jackdaws, the common crow is uncommonly smart, bold, and sassy. Crows can learn to talk—if they want to and you’re patient—and say a lot more than “Caw.” As I’ve heard from the clan of crows who perch in my backyard trees, they bark, squawk, gargle, and make clacking noises. If they see a cat in the bushes, they all set up an earsplitting chorus of what…

Dear Cricket, Your magazine was first given to me by an older friend of mine, and now I’ve bought a subscription for another friend’s birthday. Your magazine will now bring joy to three people through a chain of giving—wow! I just wanted to thank you. The thing you’re doing with this magazine is just so incredible. You’ve helped me join the Chatterbox community. I want to keep subscribing to Cricket for years and years and years! My friend’s grandparents rescued a baby pig (named Arnold) and were raising him for meat! Being vegan and an animal lover, I was dismayed. I decided to try to buy the pig and give him to a nearby animal sanctuary. The grandparents agreed to let me exchange garden work for the pig! Now I’m…

“PASS ME A woolly bugger, will ya?” I asked my cousin Isaiah. “I’m using it. Try a hopper. It’ll work just as good,” he said. Since I didn’t feel much like arguing with him, I pulled a hopper from our shared tackle box. Standing at the lake’s edge, I cast my line onto the smooth-as-glass water of Police Outpost Lake. Down the shoreline Isaiah’s father, my Uncle Rick, was knee-deep into the water by a bank of evergreen trees. He liked to fish alone, away from distractions and noise and other people. I’d learned to fish from my dad. He’d taught me to fish alone, in silence, lost in my own thoughts. Like meditation. He’d taught me everything I knew about fishing. Then, he passed away. Isaiah shouted, “Dad, where…

CAKIRA WOKE BEFORE dawn, slipped on her winter garments and moccasins, and left the lodge as quietly as she could. Her mother and younger twin sisters slept under warm buffalo hides. Her breath, like small clouds, sailed out of her mouth and nose as she walked through the Pawnee village. The ground felt hard underfoot. When she reached the edge of the settlement, the prairie spread out before her. It was quiet on this frosty morning. Not a bird sang, not a dog barked, not a horse whinnied. Cakira rubbed her cold hands together and stamped her feet. A priest of her tribe had told her about the stars. Two stars that would arise in the dawn. When they appeared, the earth would come alive! The rivers would lose their…

SPRING PUSSYFOOTED INTO the neighborhood. Daffodils nodded on long stems, and new grass edged sun-warmed sidewalks. Winter held on tighter among the trees, though. Seth didn’t mind. Everything that mattered to him was in the woods. His boots slipped on lichen-covered rocks as Seth scrambled over a stone wall. He’d grown over the winter, and his longer arms and legs seemed sometimes to get in his way. As he entered the woods, musty air chilled him, and newly sprouted oak leaves made shadows flicker. He tugged at a rotten log. Did the beetles and centipedes underneath it sense spring? The log, still frozen to the ground, didn’t budge. He took up a stick and poked at a decayed stump. “Carpenter ants! But where’s the queen?” Here by himself, Seth spoke…

Dea is convinced that her house is filled with gremlins that hide in the shadows behind the sofa, somehow avoiding the vacuum cleaner when her mom sweeps up the dust balls. Although Dea has not quite seen the gremlins yet—no more than a toenail or a tip of a tail—her cat, Dreamboat, avoids the living room, and many things have gone missing from Dea’s house. The gremlins are mischievous, leaving gum wrappers on the floor, even tearing up Dea’s homework, for which Dea’s mom blames her. Their favorite trick is to steal one of her mom’s socks on washday. Dea tells her mom that these misdeeds are the work of gremlins that she is too old to see, but, of course, her mom does not believe her. She whispers to…

WINNERS JANUARY 2022 STORY CONTEST Wintry Tale First prize 10 and under Isobel Waugh, age 10 Rochester, NY Cabin Fever Crunch. Lynn looked up from her book. She sighed, got up, and walked over to the window. Snowflakes danced around the frost-covered glass. Lynn rubbed her sleeve against it, and the window cleared. The ground was covered in a thick layer of white. Squirrels with snow-sprinkled backs scampered around the yard, searching for the acorns they had previously buried. Crunch, crunch. Lynn pressed her forehead to the cold glass and looked down. There was her little brother below her, waving and smiling mischievously. He hurled a snowball at the window. The impact made a smack. Lynn opened the window, letting the chilly midwinter air sting her cheeks. “What do you…