Michael Arthur Patterson carefully lifted one finger at a time off the holes in his recorder. Each time he lifted another finger, the note he played was higher.
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By Debbonnaire Kovacs Solomon Nassim El-Charif bit his lip and studied the paper before him on the table. Writing was so hard for him! He wished he was poetic like Susannah. She wrote all kinds of stuff. Kenya, of course, had finished quickly and was now decorating her paper with stars and glitter and crayon
Solomon Nassim El-Charif looked around the Sabbath dinner table at his family. “Mother, you’re wearing blue. You can be my partner.”
Susannah May Farmer’s room was a little messy. Actually, it was a lot messy. OK, the truth was, the goat stall looked better!
Michael Arthur Patterson ran around with his hands out, laughing. Running into a body, he grabbed hold, calling out, “I got Susannah! Susannah’s it!”
Kenya Jayne Washington put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. From this position, she looked around the table at her family. Dad was at one end of the table, Mom was at the other, and across from Kenya sat Morgan and Nairobi.
Michael Arthur Patterson leaned against the window, listening to the hiss and patter of raindrops. Usually he liked the sound of the rain, but it had been raining all week, and he was sick of it. Besides, he was feeling sad today.
Solomon Nassim El-Charif grunted as he pushed the heavy wheelbarrow down the garden path.
