Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Write in the HISTORICAL genre (05/03/07)
By Janice Cartwright
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I look at your crib; and I know you have gone to heaven but still I listen for you. I canít help it. Sometimes I think I can hear you call "Sis-see." I cry then: the house feels so lonesome.
Little Elmo you were my baby, you know, mother told me so before you came. I picked you out of a catalogue, with clothes and everything, even a carriage for you to ride in. Mother said I could. (ĎMother why are you crying so loud? The neighbors will hear.í)
Elmo you used to be waiting for me every day when I came home from school. You laughed and jumped up and down at the window. One morning you turned your bowl of oatmeal upside down on your head. You were so funny, I called Mother to come and look.
Do you remember the night Mother came and woke us and we went down in the street and lots and lots of people were there and lights were bright and people were hollering and waving their arms? It scared you a little I think, because you cried. People were throwing tiny pieces of blue and pink and yellow paper and some of them stuck to your hair and some fell in your eyes and you tried to wipe them off, but you couldnít.
Mother said it was a happy day, a great day. She called it Armistice Day, only it was night.
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