![]() ![]() Now, in the moonlight, he sits here and sings. On thrushes, thrashers, jays, and chickadees. When, after hearing the bat’s poem about an owl, the chipmunk shivers and vows to go underground before dark from now on, the little bat is deeply gratified: he knows his words have had an impact.Īll day long the mockingbird has owned the yard.Īs light first woke the world, the sparrows troopedĬhased them off shrieking. The mockingbird’s cool, clinical analysis-“It was clever of you to have that last line two feet short”-leaves him bewildered and longing for an audience who is moved by his words. He finds himself fitting observations into words and phrases, lyrical and perceptive lines of poetry. He longs to be able to pour forth a magical, uplifting song like the mockingbird’s, but he can’t sing. His mockingbird and chipmunk have such personality, and the introspective, yearning bat is a kindred spirit-really. It’s a soft and gentle tale, rather quiet, with velvety-rich language. The weak rhymed foot not always matching the strong foot (the moonlight. I’ve noticed that the older girls can’t help but be drawn into the story if they pass through the room where Rilla and I are reading. The bat-poet’s art is like Randall Jarrell’s never forced but a thing of integrity, knowledge, affection. I told her sure we could, and she heaved a mighty sigh of relief. She turned to me with furrowed brow and said, “When we finish, will we be able to read it again?” ![]() I knew Rilla was enjoying The Bat-Poet, but I didn’t realize how much until this afternoon, as we neared the end of the book. ![]()
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