The first things about the cover of The Doll Shop Downstairs that catch a reader’s eye are the delicate illustrations and sweet title. Below the old-fashioned lettering, a girl clad in a plaid dress and apron cradles a doll amid paintbrushes, spindles of cloth and a turn-of-the-century cash register. It’s not only a book cover but a window on the charming story that follows.

Anna Breittlemann, the nine-year-old narrator, loves the porcelain dolls her father and mother mend in their New York City shop. She especially loves a dark-haired beauty, despite its missing foot and cracked arm. Sharing Anna’s love of dolls are her two sisters, each of whom has her own favorite. Together, they have tea parties and cope with the economic effects of the start of World War I.

But what happens when the dolls’ owners are ready to take them back home and away from the girls? That source of anxiety for Anna is only dwarfed by her family’s money troubles, which Anna and her sisters ingeniously help their parents solve. It seems, though, that all the ingenuity in the world won’t help them keep the dolls they’ve loved for months.

Yona Zeldis McDonough gently evokes a now-lost world with her portrayal of a loving family of doll-menders in New York's Lower East Side. Young readers will enjoy vicariously living above the shop in a brownstone walk-up, sleeping overnight on a rooftop to cool off in pre-AC summer heat and paying a penny for candy at the neighborhood newsstand.

Heather Maione's period illustrations complement the text and create a nice bridge for children moving from picture to chapter books. Together with the story, which celebrates simplicity and resourcefulness, they remind the reader of the possibilities that scraps of cloth and ribbon can create.

The images of immigrant family life in a New York long since past and an industry now nearly forgotten are strengths that make The Doll Shop Downstairs a welcome addition to the shelves of yesteryear- and doll-loving youngsters alike.

Aniko Nagy is a bookseller and freelance writer in Boston.

Orphaned stray dogs Bone and his sister, Squirrel, are left to fend for themselves in the great outdoors, not knowing where their next meal will come from. These two survivors have a strong sense of family—that is, until fate separates the two and Bone is left, alone and scared, to find a new home.

Bone’s canine adventures are only one of a trio of tales that make up Ann M. Martin’s latest book for middle grade readers. In alternating chapters, we are introduced to young Henry—who wants a dog so badly that he asks for a dog, and everything for a dog, on each year’s Christmas list. And then there’s Charlie, who loses his brother and finds companionship and solace with his own dog—until tragedy strikes again.

Each well-paced story is interesting enough to propel readers into the book, wanting to know what’s next for Bone, Henry and Charlie. Chapters shift back and forth among the three—until the story takes an interesting and unexpected turn, intertwining the three main characters.

It’s hard enough to write one solid and satisfying story with well-drawn characters. It’s even harder still to write three. Toughest of all, perhaps, is weaving those three tales together seamlessly. But that’s exactly what Martin manages in a novel that explores the themes of survival, companionship, family and the importance of home.

By the end of the book, readers gain greater insights into Bone, Henry and Charlie—and how those themes impact them all and change their lives, mostly for the better. To be sure, there is plenty of harsh realism (among them, hunters, hunger and loss), but Martin’s compassion for canines is at its best here—leading to a satisfying and entirely believable ending.

Dog owner Martin is also author of the critically acclaimed A Dog’s Life, and she’s truly found her niche with animal stories that are both touching and compelling. Fellow dog lovers—and even those without a penchant for pets—are sure to share her compassion for Bone, Henry, Charlie and the entire cast.

Freelance writer and former children’s librarian Sharon Verbeten lives in De Pere, Wisconsin, where she is one of the few people in her neighborhood without a dog.

At first glance, the intriguing title and cover illustration will pique readers’ curiosity about the eponymous pachyderm of The Magician’s Elephant. Once inside, however, that intrigue builds immediately, as Kate DiCamillo—in her eloquent, yet understated, prose—unveils the book’s suspense-filled theme. From page one, readers are transported to the market square in Baltese, some 200 years ago. There they follow 10-year-old Peter Augustus Duchene, a poor orphan who spends his last coin on a fortune teller, seeking the answer to one question—whatever became of his long-thought-dead sister?

The fortune teller reveals that his sister is alive and advises Peter, in enigmatic soothsayer fashion, to “follow the elephant” to find out more. The puzzled boy begins his quest to unravel the fortune teller’s meaning.

When a magician’s trick goes awry, an elephant is sent crashing through the roof of an opera house, disabling a town noblewoman. This spectacular event proves fortuitous for Peter and the rest of the town, who become inexplicably drawn to the elephant—a vessel, of sorts, through which they channel their hopes, dreams and wishes. Soon, a chain of events—some mundane, some amazing—results in a simple but impeccably well-told tale about belief, wonder and making the extraordinary come true.

Newbery Award winner DiCamillo has long been a word virtuoso, and this novel solidifies that role. Everything about this story is masterful. The prose is remarkably simple, with underpinnings of delicious dry humor. Yoko Tanaka’s illustrations have a soft Chris Van Allsburg-esque quality, which lend atmosphere to the tale.

The Magician’s Elephant is a well-paced fable about following the ever-elusive truth— a truth that is “forever changing,” as the beggar in the book observes. At its most ambitious, it’s also a haunting analogy of belonging—whether man or beast, rich or poor, beggar or countess, we all just want to be home, to be loved, to belong.

Former children’s librarian Sharon Verbeten is right at home with a husband and toddler, but no mysterious elephants, in De Pere, Wisconsin.

Mac Slater isn’t cool or popular, and he doesn’t care. But after attempting to jump over a group of kids in a flying bicycle, he is approached by the creators of the “Coolhunters” website about the possibility of becoming a coolhunter. Mac doesn’t think he knows what cool is, but he agrees to join the contest when he learns that winning the job will earn him a trip to New York from his home in Kings Bay, Australia.

The very hip Cat Devrees is also up for the title, and Mac’s initial attempts to outcool the coolest teen in town don’t go very well. An unyielding competitor, Cat is the obvious choice for the position; Mac appears to be just a small obstacle as she seeks to claim her prize. To compete, the two teens seek out what they think is cool and post their ideas online. The person with the most online votes will win the job.

The website creators gamble on Mac in the hopes that he’s so uncool he’s cool. Mac isn’t so sure, so he has to test himself and consider: Is “cool” found in new products and fashions and trends, or is “cool” something a little more elusive? Through seeking cool, Mac learns a few lessons about himself—and who he really aspires to be.

Kids searching for a place in what seems to be the strictly coded world of cool versus uncool will find hope and a new life outlook in Mac Slater Hunts the Cool. The novel is a refreshing and irreverent take on the underdog protagonist seeking and reaching new heights. And while Mac Slater is an obvious choice for boys, it will appeal to girls, too, because the themes are relevant to kids everywhere.

Emily Booth Masters reviews from Nashville, Tennessee.

“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious,” said Albert Einstein, and that’s exactly what 12-year-old Miranda has. In fact, her whole story is a mystery. Readers know from page one that Miranda is telling this story to someone in particular. She narrates the story and stops every now and then to address the unknown person: “Just like you said” or “You asked me to mention the key.” Then there’s Sal, Miranda’s best friend—only friend, actually—who is hit in the stomach and face on the way home from school one day, and that ends their friendship, but we don’t know why that should be. And Miranda begins finding mysterious notes that say things like, “I am coming to save your friend’s life, and my own” and “The trip is a difficult one. I will not be myself when I reach you.” The notes indicate that she is being watched and that whoever is writing them knows about things before they happen.

The book’s cover gathers some of the clues: a key, a shoe, a two dollar bill, a mailbox with a person’s shadow extending from it (but there’s no person), a green coat, a book, a sack of bread. All of these things play into the story, though readers will just have to keep reading if they don’t understand everything right away. They can trust Rebecca Stead’s masterful plotting. She sprinkles clues, and readers must collect them along the way, as Miranda does.

In the midst of all the mysteriousness is an expertly crafted realistic story perfect for intermediate readers. The setting—New York City’s Upper West Side in 1979—is well drawn, and Miranda’s mother lets her navigate the streets of her neighborhood, teaching her to avoid those older boys hanging out and that mysterious laughing man always saying crazy things.

What could be better: a great setting, believable characters and a mystery deftly woven by a fine writer. This is a book to be reckoned with come Newbery season.

Dean Schneider teaches middle school English in Nashville.

According to my records, I have read The Wizard of Oz 17 times. That’s a conservative estimate and doesn’t count the number of times I heard the book read aloud when I was a child. I have defended L. Frank Baum’s work from detractors who find it didactic or flat, and I have watched the eyes of more than 300 second-graders as they absorb the story of Dorothy and her adventures.

Grace Lin’s latest book, Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, is part Chinese legend, part Zen storytelling, part feminist-inspired folktale and many parts Oz. My list of “things that are just like Oz” includes: a girl on a journey for a magical being, a friend who needs help, a brick road, cliffhanger chapter endings, old-fashioned full-color illustrations and a dramatic tone. But, despite my long list, Lin’s adventure story reads like an homage to Oz rather than a story derived from it.

Our heroine, Minli, spends her family’s hard-earned money on a goldfish that is supposed to change their fortune. Ma is the keeper of the money, and she complains constantly about her family’s impoverished state. The stories of the talking goldfish inspire Minli to set out on a journey to Never-Ending Mountain, where she will ask the Old Man in the Moon for help.

Following the traditions of the hero myth, Lin portrays Minli as she travels far from home, carrying items that end up being important for her survival. She meets a magical and beloved dragon companion who helps her see what is really important. She meets and overcomes challenges and has to complete her mission alone. And, in the end, Minli learns what she is supposed to learn. Every character in the story changes and grows during the time that Minli is away.

My future second-graders are going to love Minli and her stories when I read this book to them next year. They will see the similarities to Oz, but that will only make the story better for them. Suspenseful without being scary, complex without being complicated, this spirited tale of self-discovery and fate has a little something for every reader.

Robin Smith shares Oz and other stories with her second-grade class in Nashville.

The path to “finding oneself” can be a dark and murky one. But those adjectives take on a more frightening realism for the girl who wakes up lying cold and disoriented in a pine forest, wondering who she is, how she got there and where she came from.

So begins Lexi, a tale of literally, and figuratively, finding oneself. Not knowing where to start, the girl wanders the streets until she is taken to a homeless shelter—where pieces of the unknown puzzle of her life begin to fall into place . . . in an intriguing, and somewhat fast-paced, fashion. A motley cast of characters—including a mysterious twin, a celebrity father, a caring grandmother, a deceptive would-be kidnapper and a helpful stranger—lend depth to the story, which is told in first person narrative. 

At the shelter, the girl learns her name (Lexi) and uncovers many more clues to her forgotten life. She also gains compassion for others around her—a quality that brings the story full circle at its conclusion.

The prose is readable with a few potential stumbling points. When the shelter kids weave “stories” that may or may not be real, the lines become a bit blurred and some young readers may be a bit distracted by the symbolism.

In addition to gaining her identity as well as a family, a somewhat surprising, and literal, pot of gold appears at the end of Lexi’s journey. Lest the reader find it unbelievable, the author compassionately ties up all the loose ends in a most satisfying way.

What was once lost has been found, and Lexi finds much more than her identity. She finds a way to give back and to help others who are less fortunate forge a clearer path on their own personal journeys.

As Lexi learns, you can go home again—and it can be an enlightening, and rewarding, experience.

Sharon Verbeten, a former children’s librarian and current freelance writer, makes her home in De Pere, Wisconsin.

In Our Town, Jane Crofut receives a letter addressed: “Jane Crofut; the Crofut Farm; Grover’s Corners; Sutton County; New Hampshire; United States of America; Continent of North America; Western Hemisphere; the Earth; the Solar System; the Universe; the Mind of God.” It’s an effective way to situate little Grover’s Corners in the larger scheme of things. Artist Dave McKean does something similar in Slog’s Dad, his striking new collaboration with writer David Almond, but McKean’s images move in reverse, opening the book in the farthest reaches of space, where just stars and blackness abound. Then the Earth, blue-green and marble-sized, appears. Next, we see a larger Earth, then a sketchy map of Western Europe and England, finally zooming in to a town, a town square and a man on a bench near Myer’s butcher shop. Davie and Slog see the man, and Slog recognizes him: It’s his dad. But Davie protests, “Slogger, man. Your dad’s dead.”

Slog knows that, of course, but he’s still convinced the man is his dad, returned in the spring as he said he would. Slog’s dad, Joe Mickley, was a “daft and canny soul,” whose decline began with a black spot, as in Treasure Island, except Joe’s black spot was on his toe, the first signs of a disease that ate away at his body. It was “like living in a horror picture,” said Slog, as the doctors first removed a toe, then the foot, the legs, and finally Joe died and disappeared altogether.

Is the man on the bench really Slog’s father? Davie doubts, Slog believes, and the graphic novel becomes a meditation on grieving and belief. Mystery is always at the heart of Almond’s work. In Skellig (1998), Mina says, as Slog might here, “We can’t know. Sometimes we just have to accept there are things we can’t know. . . . We have to allow ourselves to see what there is to see, and we have to imagine.”

As in the previous Almond-McKean collaboration, The Savage (2008), the ink and Photoshop illustrations and the poetic prose work together to leave readers wondering, imagining and, perhaps, believing.