Newbery Medal winner Patricia MacLachlan tells the story of a barn, built in 1919, in this warm, joyous celebration of family.

The story is told from the point of view of a grown man, looking back fondly on the construction of the barn when he was 5 years old. It was “built by townspeople: fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, grandmothers and grandfathers, and friends.” The boy stands out on this rust-colored palette with his bright red hat. He recalls the sensory details of that time—the hot sun, the sounds of laughter as he played with his friends, the “butterscotch floors” of the barn and more—and remembers the moment his father lost his gold wedding band. MacLachlan’s use of vivid, figurative language makes this lengthy story sing (the “ice-blue wings” of swallows “flashing in the sunlight,” and hammering that “echoed in the valley like the beat of music”).

Seasons pass throughout many years, and the boy grows, eventually marrying a childhood friend in the barn. New children are born. The barn remains, steadfast. One day, the boy-now-man, still in his red cap, finds his father’s wedding ring, “safe for all these years in the barn.” He hangs it from a string, right underneath a photo taken the day of the barn raising.

Kenard Pak’s soft, smudgy illustrations reflect the book’s nostalgic tone, and the striking red of the barn pops among the primarily earth-tone colors of the story. The humble building is the star of the show, after all—a symbol of kinship and love.

Julie Danielson conducts interviews and features of authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children’s literature blog primarily focused on illustration and picture books.

When you think of nature, what do you imagine? Anthills, molehills, bears in dens and lions in the sun? In A Stone Sat Still, author-illustrator Brendan Wenzel tells a universal story of life through an ostensibly nonliving object. Unmoving and constant, a stone may be still. But it is full of life, both for and because of the life surrounding it.

Through Wenzel’s unique art, each page contains a small ecosphere to explore. Wenzel gives readers a new awareness, envisioning life through the expressive eyes of myriad creatures. A variety of media (paper collage, pastels) and colors transform the stone from crisp and bright to slippery and mossy or shadowy and secretive. Soft and blunt edges come together to create dimension, texture and movement. Slightly fantastical, Wenzel’s art flows from season to season; time passes, and the land changes, both dynamic and perpetual.

Lyrical and precise, A Stone Sat Still reads like a poem. In addition to rhyme, Wenzel weaves together metaphors, alliteration and personification to tap into the reader’s senses and imagination: How does the stone feel, smell or sound to the creatures that temporarily inhabit its world?

The littlest readers will find comfort in A Stone Sat Still’s repetition. Curious minds will be fascinated by both the familiar and unusual creatures parading across the pages. Imaginative brains will find vast realms of inspiration. And all readers will leave the stone with a sense of wonder about the next chapter in its life.

Jessie Sima presents the entertaining story of Spencer’s New Pet as if it were an old black-and-white motion picture. The book opens with a film leader, the countdown from three to one with large numbers in rotating circles. The book’s art deco typeface—for the titles of the story’s three main parts, presented like the intertitles of a silent film (the book is otherwise wordless)—resembles film fonts from the middle of the last century. Throughout the book, rendered on a palette of varying shades of gray, Sima even simulates iris shots, a technique frequently used in silent films. A spare, warm red is devoted to only two objects in the book.

A boy leads his new balloon animal, tied by a clown, about on a leash, and the danger of popping seems to lurk around every corner. But what appears to be the simple story of a boy enjoying his new balloon animal as if it’s a pet turns out to be otherwise.

Once the big reveal comes at the book’s close—who is really holding the leash, exactly?—readers will want to immediately reread to look for clues. (In one spread, for instance, the boy reads Pygmalion, the classic Greek myth, to his new pet.) The twist even takes the book’s tone in a creepy direction (delightfully so).

Readers will understand that things are not always what they seem—and will thrill at the drama that unfolds in this surprising and suspenseful homage to silent films.

Julie Danielson conducts interviews and features of authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children's literature blog primarily focused on illustration and picture books.

When a gentle breeze tickles the ear of a very small sleeping mouse, he awakes with a squeak, beginning a chain reaction that ripples across mountains and valleys, touches creeks and rivers, rousing every creature in its wake. With a light touch, sisters Laura McGee Kvasnosky and Kate Harvey McGee do a stellar job of showing the interconnection of all things wet and scaly, wild and wooly.

Each page delights with sound and motion: The chipmunks chitter and skitter, an eagle “whooshes” and beats her wings, and a bighorn lamb nearly misses its mark while leaping to a nearby peak, sending dirt and gravel off the cliff to the ground below. Vibrant illustrations by McGee capture the beauty and expansiveness of the Pacific Northwest, with all its creatures—ranging from the smallest mouse to bighorn sheep and the largest of them all, a bellowing bison. All the ruckus finally comes back to the mouse, still curled up in a ball and wondering what the racket is all about.

The pairing of lively language and pastel panoramas makes Squeak! both rich and evocative. Little ones will love hearing about this mouse’s wake-up call to the world.

Canadian author Aimee Reid and the incomparable illustrator Matt Phelan team up for an accessible introduction to the life of Fred Rogers for young readers. Although it is fictionalized, the book incorporates a factual biography of Rogers in the back, as well as notes from the author and illustrator and a select bibliography.

The story begins with an aspect of Fred Rogers’ life that many adult readers may not know: He was a sickly child who suffered from allergies and spent a lot of time inside and alone. In his own neighborhood, Rogers was bullied. Thanks to helpers, including his grandfather, Rogers gained confidence and a strong sense of values that became the underpinning of his groundbreaking television series, “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.” As the book tells us, “His grandpa told Fred that he liked him just the way he was. He said Fred was special and that, just by being himself, Fred made the day special, too.”

The book includes scenes of Rogers reaching out to other helpers in the community. Although one scene shows Rogers surrounded by a gathering of diverse children, this aspect of the book might have been strengthened by mentioning, for instance, African American police officer Officer Clemmons, who appeared on “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”

Overall, however, Reid’s simple text and Phelan’s soft pencil and watercolor illustrations come together to capture the gentle force of nature that was Mister Rogers himself.

Channeling the abundant curiosity of a toddler, a rabbit consistently asks questions of his friend, a large and patient bear. The rabbit is of a more philosophical bent, asking “why?” of everything the bear does in this story, told entirely in dialogue.

The illustrations do the heavy lifting in this sparsely worded story, telling us what we need to know about the close bond between the two. Why, the rabbit wonders, must they look through a telescope to see the stars at night? Because they are so far away, the bear responds. The bear is also able to explain why she likes honey, why too much of it makes her ill, why birds fly south for the winter and more.

But when the rabbit sees a fallen bird, the bear is stumped, acknowledging the mysteries and frustrations of loss: “I don’t know why. Sometimes I just don’t know why!” When the bear sadly saunters off, the rabbit begs her to stay, and now it’s the bear’s turn to ask why. The rabbit’s response brings this gentle and graceful story full circle, cementing their friendship and serving as a subtle reminder that grief can be endured with a friend nearby.

This reassuring tale, rendered via watercolors on a lush, green palette, isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions (or in this case, one big question), suggesting that love can persist in the face of loss. Even young readers who have yet to experience loss will find resonance in this quiet story in which answers may not come easy—but steadfastness does.

Julie Danielson conducts interviews and features of authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children's literature blog primarily focused on illustration and picture books.

“Like a car seat for your brain” is how Blair Thornburgh describes skulls in her informational picture book of the same name. Written in a second person voice (“You probably don’t think much about skulls”), Skulls! introduces a young girl who starts to see those around her in eye-opening ways as an unknown narrator describes the purpose and functions of skulls in the human body.

In the book’s second full spread, the girl sees a crowd of people around her, and at the page turn she sees them just as they were but with their skulls exposed. Illustrator Scott Campbell’s funny and affectionate watercolor illustrations (the Grim Reaper with a juice box, a mummy with a guitar and a pirate’s bearded skull, chomping on a hot dog) keep matters from getting too grisly. Skulls are “not trying to be scary,” after all. “They can’t help the way they look.”

Thornburgh draws in the reader with the immediate and direct “you” by pointing out the many ways in which the reader benefits from having a skull and emphasizing the importance of taking care of it. Appended are “Cool Skull Facts!” that close with an enthusiastic command to declare love for one’s skull. (“Say it again: I love my skull!”) The purple-tone opening endpapers show the heads of various humans, and the closing ones show the same humans—but with skulls exposed.

Skulls may often be associated with death and mortality, but this life-affirming book is breezy and ebullient. You can say it again: Skulls were never more fun.

Julie Danielson conducts interviews and features of authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children's literature blog primarily focused on illustration and picture books.