Butterfly Summer - Quest to Save the Monarchs

By Siri DiSavona

Skylar Maroni discovers that monarch butterflies are disappearing from North America and could soon be wiped out forever! She and her pesky little brother Scout, just can't let that happen. Follow them on their quest to save the monarchs and make a difference in the world. It's much harder and more wonderful than they ever expected...Can they do it? Follow Sky and Scout on their quest, and learn how you, too, can help save the monarchs...

 

This is perfect for ages 9 and up. And for any parent, teacher or librarian, it will make a great addition to your STEM library, making readers smile, as well as touch hearts, even as it delivers the important science facts about monarchs, at age appropriate levels, of course. An Appendix of Fun Facts, including scientifically correct drawings and a glossary, encourages additional learning. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rolling Meadows Publishing
• Release date: Aug 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393233466

Book preview

~ 1 ~

Today's Mission

IT'S NOT EVEN DAWN, and I'd love to crawl back into bed for a while. But I'm determined. A little scared, but determined.

My new bedroom still looks a jumbled mess from the move. On my bookshelves I dig through books, my microscope, paint pots, dried flowers, twigs and other odd stuff to find even a scrap of paper. Then, literally under a rock, half a sheet of blank notebook paper appears, torn, but not too ragged.

I write:

Today's mission: Exploring the Wilds!

Meet me at the willow.

On the floor, in the corner behind my bed, there are a couple of partly unpacked moving boxes, plus stacks of my sketchbooks and framed drawings. I'll get to them eventually, but more important things come first.

Right now, one sketchbook and two pencils are my priority one. I dig them out and stuff them securely into the pocket of my favorite old cargo shorts. As far back as I can remember, Mama has been after me to wear nicer clothes. I can't figure out why – these are just perfect.

Oops, one more thing. From my Skylar's Science moving box, I grab the magnifying glass and slide it into another pocket on my shorts. Like I say, perfect.

I spy a lump moving around under my bedspread. One of the rules of our house is that our beds are supposed to be made nice and smooth each morning. But there's no time for that today. When I poke at the lump, it moves and grabs my fingers. Pulling back the bedspread, there's my calico kitten, Rags, looking up at me, purring. Even though I'm in a hurry, of course I have to take a minute to play.

Since it's so early, I whisper, so as not to wake up anyone else. Hey, good morning, Rags. I guess you're ready to play, huh? I nuzzle her silky, soft fur, then settle her back under the bedspread. Go back to sleep.

I pass over the pair of stylish summer sandals that Aunt Mimi sent for my birthday. Skinny criss-cross straps and shiny bows probably have their place for certain occasions, but they're definitely not my style. Instead? Thick socks and hiking boots. It may be summer, but these make more sense where I'm going. Comfort over style any day, that's for me.

Trying to tie my bootlaces proves a challenge though, as Rags makes a dive for them each time I flip or twist a lace. Silly Rags! I whisper.

I avoid looking at myself in the mirror – it's usually better not to even look– bed head, tangles everywhere. Mama is always after me to do something with that hair, so I give it a couple quick licks with my hair brush. Good enough. Mama wouldn't think so – my long hair is so thick and always seems to have a mind of its own. But good enough is good enough.

When I pull back my window curtain, the rolling Wisconsin countryside is still pretty dark. The sky is clear, but a gray pre-dawn light seems to hover over everything, with fingers of fog floating like ghosts across our lawn. I peek through my doorway into the hall. The only light in the house is the nightlight shining weakly from the bathroom. Everything seems quiet.

Good. Looks like the coast is clear.

Taking my scrap of paper, I sneak out of my room. Gotta get out of the house before Scout wakes. He can catch up with me later, but right now I don't want him waking up and begging to come with me.

A small black nose pokes around the door from Scout's room across the hall.

Sorry, Sparkie, not this morning, I whisper, softly closing the door to keep him inside. You can't come. I'll make it up to you later, I promise.

Sparkie is a sweet little dog we adopted from the rescue shelter, now that we finally have a house with a yard. And he is a perfect fit in our family. Being a dog, he's always eager to go wherever we go. But, today he'll have to wait for Scout. Luckily he's also a good dog and, for now at least, doesn't whine or bark.

I slide the scrap of paper under Scout's door, and creep over to the stairs.

Squeak! Pop!

Oh, these crummy old stairs! Even the smallest sounds seem magnified a hundred times when you're trying to sneak out unnoticed.

But, I know how to tackle this. Leaning on the banister for support, I skip every other step, avoiding the middle of the stair treads. The middle makes the most noise.

I sigh with relief at the bottom of the stairs. Almost home free.

Squeeeeel! The front door hinge complains as I open it. I cringe. For sure Scout will hear, and that will ruin everything. I definitely don't need a noisy little brother slowing me down and messing things up on this trip.

But, luck is with me. No one calls after me, and in two giant leaps I'm off the porch, jogging across the lawn. I smile a guilty smile. Scout may be mad at me for ditching him, but I'll deal with that later. Right now, if I've figured things correctly, it'll be worth it. My destination – the meadow at the end of our country road – awaits.

NOBODY IS IN SIGHT at this early hour. Down the road a ways, I jog by the big, yellow farmhouse up on the hill, the only other house on our road. Most mornings old Mrs. Ortiz is outside, sweeping her sidewalk or tending the roses that climb all over the porch railings and columns. We're still new in the neighborhood, and me and Scout haven't ever talked with her ourselves. Still, she always has a friendly wave for us when we go by. But, at this early hour the Ortiz house is still dark.

At the end of their driveway a rusty, hand-painted sign swings slightly in the breeze.

A – Z

Small Engine & Appliance Repair Shop

Owned and Operated

By Martin Ortiz

Affordable Services

For More Than 20 Years

30

Behind the house, there's this big, old barn. Long ago it must have been bright red, but now it's mostly gray with age. If the place had ever been a farm with animals, it sure isn't one now. The only animals I've ever seen there are two fat old cats, one black, one white.

They usually sleep in the sunshine on the driveway all day. Today, with the sun not yet up to warm the driveway, the cats are nowhere to be seen. I call, Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. But they must be busy, maybe catching breakfast mice around the barn, because they don't come out.

Me and Scout are Chicago city kids – we've never been in a real barn. But Papa says to stay away; it's a place of business, not a place for children to be messing around.

Two dirty, old windows hang above a dark, double-wide door. When the lights are on, which they are now, it makes the barn look like a scary jack-o-lantern face glaring down at me. In this early morning half-light, it's definitely spooky.

In the short time we've lived here, we've never seen old Mr. Ortiz, although even at this early hour it looks like he's already working somewhere in the back of the barn. A little bit of light shines through the dirty windows, and mysterious whirring and clanking noises float all the way out here to the road.

What're you doing in there, anyway? I whisper.

Last week Scout dared me to peek in the windows and find out. Not today, we have more important things to do, I'd said at the time. It was an excuse, really. Something about that old barn gives me the creeps. But, one of these days I'm definitely gonna check it out. For sure. Just not today.

In spite of the warm morning, a little shiver runs down my spine, so I keep moving, glad to put some distance between me and the barn.

As I jog, I think about school. It's almost August, summer will soon be gone, and the school year will begin. I'm looking forward to school starting, I hope to actually make some friends here in our new home. On the other hand, I’m also not looking forward to school starting, because...well, duh...it’s a new school and I don’t know anybody. But I’m trying not to freak out about that. Otherwise, it'll ruin my summer, which is already bad enough, without any friends here.

Reaching the meadow, I walk slowly down the narrow path that winds toward the pond. The meadow is a canvas of yellow, purple, orange, pink, white and red wildflowers, all covered with dew in the first light of dawn. That really appeals to the artist in me. I have to admit that this little meadow is beautiful in its own wild way, even though it can't compare to the city parks with the lush flowering gardens we have – used to have – in Chicago. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. I can smell the fragrance of these summer flowers. It mingles with this earthy scent that seems to come from the little pond, surrounding marsh and grasslands. Ah, so sweet!

The sun's rays are starting to peek through the trees. When I stand in a sunbeam, it makes the day feel all soft and fuzzy as it warms my cheek and outstretched arms. The tall stalks of grass slip gently along my arms, as dewdrops tickle my fingertips.

I stand still for a moment, listening. In Chicago, we were always surrounded by city sounds. Day or night, never silence, since Chicago never sleeps. Car horns honk, sirens blare, buses swoosh by, church bells gong. Footsteps clatter on the sidewalks in front of our building. Gentle pigeons coo on our window sills. People talk – in a dozen different languages. I love all that. To me it's how life's 'sposed to sound. A cacophony – yeah, that's the word I want, I love the way it rolls off my tongue – a glorious cacophony of sound.

No cacophony here, though. The silence is broken only by a few birds singing their first morning songs to each other. A bird calls out terrr-EEEEE. It's a shiny black bird with a blazing red stripe on each wing. It's swaying back and forth on the tip of a tall grass plant.

Terrr-EEEEE, I call back. But the bird just cocks its head and flies up and away.

Next to the little pond is where I'm headed this morning, to the gigantic weeping willow tree. I like how the long leaflets line the narrow branches that bend gracefully to the ground. I've been working on drawing it. The trunk is blackened in places, twisted and jutting out in all directions. Clearly, it's taken a lot of punches from old mother nature. Battered, yet still standing strong. Some people might say it's ugly. But, you know what? I think all that quirkiness makes it beautiful in its own way.

Perfect, I say. Not that there's anyone to hear me. I reach out and part the veil of branches. Grabbing a sturdy lower limb, I pull myself into the arms of that old willow. The bark feels soft and nubby, like the old chenille bedspread I got from my grandma. Up and up I scramble. Each limb seems to invite me to climb to the next. High in its branches, I sit, wiggling my back against the trunk, to get situated just so.

The whole meadow lays out in front of me like a landscape painting. Beyond the meadow there are the rolling hills of Wisconsin that this area is famous for. A couple of farms are in the distance, dotted with cows, just dark spots on fields of green. It's really pretty. Never having had a tree to climb like this before, I've gotta say it feels good to be up here in the willow. Mama would have a fit if she knew I was climbing this high. But geez, it's not like I'm a baby anymore.

A sketchbook always goes everywhere with me. This one's full of my sketches of the meadow flowers. Today I'm gonna sketch the view looking down from up here in the willow. I've never sketched from this perspective before – it seems a little weird. Instead of gazing at a single flower, leaves and stem from the side angle, I'm looking down on a field full of the tops of flowers, along with meadow grass, the pond, lily pads and cattails. Mama would say I'm going out of my comfort zone – looking at things with a fresh perspective.

The drawing begins to take shape as I struggle to get the smallest details right – that must be the scientist in me. Science and art, they go together, right? The hardest part is showing how the early morning sunbeams shimmer through the trees to sparkle in dewdrops on the grass. Will I ever get that part right? Holding my drawing at arms' length, I turn it this way and that, eyeing it critically.

Up here, in the top of the willow, a small breeze gently touches my face and arms. The only sounds are the soft swish of the willow leaves and fleeting songs of the birds. Nothing stirs in the meadow below.

Then, this one little area of the meadow grass starts moving. Rippling, kind of like waves on