Diana DelRusso

 

Book Title: Pages, the book-maker elf

Pages, the book-maker elfFree Preview

Tightly woven snowflakes blanketed the ground outside as the cuckoo bird flew in and out of his warm, cozy home to sing his hourly cuckoo song. Suddenly, with his bright orange beak wide open, the tiny cuckoo bird came to a screeching halt atop his perch. He heard a painfully sad cry.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened intently. None of the busy elves could identify what they had heard.

“Never had I heard such a shrill,” gasped Tracks, the train-maker elf.

“Whatever shall we do?” asked Dolly, the doll-maker elf.

“Wait! There it is again!” Tracks insisted. All the elves quietly put down their tools to listen to the strange cry once more.

“H…..E…..L…..P…...,” the shrill voice seemed to call out.

Slowly, the curious elves tiptoed across their cluttered workshop. They followed the shrill voice until they came to the very last window along the back wall of the building.

Tracks struggled to open the window to see who or what was making the strange noise.

“If I were only a little taller,” he grumbled.

No sooner than he had finished speaking, his hand reached the top of the window pane. His buddy Stacks, the block-maker elf, lifted his struggling friend onto a step he quickly built.

                                 “Thanks, Stacks,” he called out.     

As Tracks stretched his head out of the window for a peek, tiny icicle fingers reached up out of the snowdrift and tugged on his long white whiskers. Tracks was so startled that he hit the window frame with the top of his head.

“What the blazes was that?” he shouted.

“H…E…L…P…,” went the desperate voice once more.

“Where are you? Who are you?” asked a very puzzled Tracks.

“I’m here, lying in the snow. Can’t you see me? I’m right here under your nose!” pleaded the mysterious voice.

“All I can see is an old, wet book lying in the snow.” Tracks replied.

“That’s me! Please pick me up and warm me. I’m so very stiff and cold.”

The voice became softer and began to quiver. Tracks struggled to lift the heavy, wet book from the cold blanket of snow.

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