The Little Quiet Book
(Note: The italicized text was written by Katherine Ross, copyright 1989 by Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. Library of Congress Catalog Card #: 88-62101 ISBN 0-394-82899-2 Manufactured in the US. $3.25 US $4.25 Canada. Sheesh. Happy now?)
When The Child was wee, part of the bedtime ritual was reading stories. No matter what or how many we read, the last one had to be The Little Quiet Book. It began:
Quiet is...
Quiet is a moth flapping its wings.
Quiet is a mockingbird after it sings.
Quiet is a spider.
Quiet is a mouse.
Quiet are the noises in your house.
She loved this book and so did I. It had a hushed tone about it and a musicality. It was story and lullaby in one. Reading it in the dusky, dim room lit by only one light and cuddling my baby was the perfect end to whatever sort of day we might have had.
Quiet is a deer standing still.
Quiet is a rabbit on the hill.
Quiet is the fireplace.
Quiet is a hug. (We'd stop here to give each other a big squeeze).
Quiet is the blinking lightening bug.
The other day I uncovered this book. It's made of sturdy cardboard, like they do for children's first books these days. It's edges are worn away from all the times The Child chewed on it.
Quiet is a chipmunk in the park.
Quiet is the puppy who does not bark.
We read her "the classics": Beatrix Potter, AA Milne, the "Eloise" books and Peter Pan. Sometimes she'd catch me reading to myself and climb up in my lap for a story and I'd read aloud whatever I had in hand, Brideshead Revisited or a Lord Peter mystery. She didn't care. She like words, she liked being held close. Although mommy books didn't have the same staying power as her own, what with no pictures.
Quiet is the dew.
Quiet are the bees.
Quiet is the wind that stirs the trees.
Quiet is the star.
Quiet is the street.
Quiet are the slippers on your feet.
The Child is a bit sentimental (wonder where she got that) and so yesterday, when she found The Little Quiet Book on my desk she picked it up with a sweet, "Oh, Mommy..." and started to look at it. "I'm going to read this to you," she said.
Quiet is the darkness softly creeping.
Quiet is the teddy soundly sleeping.
Quiet is the moon.
Quiet is the brook.
Quiet are you when you close this book.
Hush.
She was rapping.
When The Child was wee, part of the bedtime ritual was reading stories. No matter what or how many we read, the last one had to be The Little Quiet Book. It began:
Quiet is...
Quiet is a moth flapping its wings.
Quiet is a mockingbird after it sings.
Quiet is a spider.
Quiet is a mouse.
Quiet are the noises in your house.
She loved this book and so did I. It had a hushed tone about it and a musicality. It was story and lullaby in one. Reading it in the dusky, dim room lit by only one light and cuddling my baby was the perfect end to whatever sort of day we might have had.
Quiet is a deer standing still.
Quiet is a rabbit on the hill.
Quiet is the fireplace.
Quiet is a hug. (We'd stop here to give each other a big squeeze).
Quiet is the blinking lightening bug.
The other day I uncovered this book. It's made of sturdy cardboard, like they do for children's first books these days. It's edges are worn away from all the times The Child chewed on it.
Quiet is a chipmunk in the park.
Quiet is the puppy who does not bark.
We read her "the classics": Beatrix Potter, AA Milne, the "Eloise" books and Peter Pan. Sometimes she'd catch me reading to myself and climb up in my lap for a story and I'd read aloud whatever I had in hand, Brideshead Revisited or a Lord Peter mystery. She didn't care. She like words, she liked being held close. Although mommy books didn't have the same staying power as her own, what with no pictures.
Quiet is the dew.
Quiet are the bees.
Quiet is the wind that stirs the trees.
Quiet is the star.
Quiet is the street.
Quiet are the slippers on your feet.
The Child is a bit sentimental (wonder where she got that) and so yesterday, when she found The Little Quiet Book on my desk she picked it up with a sweet, "Oh, Mommy..." and started to look at it. "I'm going to read this to you," she said.
Quiet is the darkness softly creeping.
Quiet is the teddy soundly sleeping.
Quiet is the moon.
Quiet is the brook.
Quiet are you when you close this book.
Hush.
She was rapping.
cobbled together by Moi at 7:22 AM
8 Comments:
Yeah I seem to remember us making up a rap to that book after the godzillionth reading.
You should also include the author credit in your post for the book to at least look like your trying to obey the copyright laws :)
I'm seeing it as more of a speed-metal thing. Possibly because I can't rap.
I'm going to order that book today. And hope I never have to rap it.
Tick tock and you don't stop
Happy story.
If Humpty Dumpty feel in the woods and there was no one to hear him, would it still make a sound?
Oh! Gotta laugh... you say - you wonder where she gets her 'sentimentality' from... I think probably the same place she gets a sense of humor that makes it seem completely reasonable - to rap The Little Quiet Book! - That's hilarious... sweet.
Thank you for posting this. My parents used to read me this book in the same rhythmic way before bed. As you say, a book and a lullaby. I was trying to remember it today and found your blog post. Thank you so much for posting this.
I loved this book as a small child as well. I think that there is something about the simple, yet elegant pictures and the lullaby-esque rhyme that conjures warm feelings of one’s own cozy bedroom. I set my ragged little copy aside for my own kids and have recently pulled it out and added it to our bookshelf. How funny that they should find it themselves on the shelf and instantly fall in love with it as well. <3
Thank you for sharing.
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