A tiny owl becomes an unexpected hero in Knight Owl, a tale of dreams, dragons and determination.

“Since the day he hatched, Owl had one wish. To be a knight.” Owl loves to envision himself armed with a sword and shield and bravely confronting a dragon. At Knight School, his hard work and resilience are rewarded, though the experience is not without challenges, including heavy swords and Owl’s “habit of nodding off during the day.”

After graduation, Owl takes a post on the Knight Night Watch. One night, a hungry dragon approaches the castle. Although he is frightened, Owl reminds himself that he is “a real knight and knights are brave.” He cleverly finds a way to transform his menacing foe into a memorable friend.

Knight Owl has all the ingredients for an old-fashioned tale of medieval gallantry. Owl’s blend of ambition and tender vulnerability will be instantly relatable to young children who, like Owl, live in a world designed for creatures much bigger than they are.

Suffused with luminous warmth, the jewel-tone illustrations by author-illustrator Christopher Denise are a visual feast. Denise intersperses full-bleed spreads depicting cozy interiors and starlit castle walls with humorous and poignant vignettes of Owl and his endearing knightly pursuits. Early on, Denise depicts Owl’s heroic aspirations in a style that evokes medieval tapestries, and whimsical details abound, such as a textbook held open to a chapter called “How to build knight stuff.” Effective shifts in perspective underscore Owl’s diminutive size as he stands watch on the castle’s high wall and, later, quakes under the looming gaze of the golden-eyed dragon.

In Tremendous Trifles, a 1909 collection of columns written by the English writer G.K. Chesterton and originally published in the Daily News, Chesterton memorably observed, “The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.” In its own way, Knight Owl does this as well, demonstrating how dragons can be overcome through bravery, perseverance and kindness. And in Owl’s case, with a shared box of pizza.

“Not everyone loves a train,” begins Kate Hoefler and Jessixa Bagley’s Courage Hats. Mae, carrying a small yellow suitcase, and Bear, with an old-fashioned knapsack across his shoulder, are both feeling anxious as they board a high-speed train. They don’t know each other yet, but they will.

Because she will be traveling “deep into bear places,” Mae has made a paper-bag headpiece to help her look more like a bear, with round ears and a brown nose. And because Bear will be venturing “deep into people places,” he has crafted a similar human-esque paper-bag hat. Each headpiece has a large hole that reveals Mae’s and Bear’s true faces, but to themselves and each other, they are utterly transformed.

Wearing their hats, Mae and Bear find seats next to each other on the train. Mae’s suitcase turns out to contain a tea set, while Bear’s polka-dotted knapsack holds sandwiches, crackers and cookies. Together, they enjoy a cozy spread as the train carries them on to a destination revealed on the book’s final page.

Bagley (Before I Leave) creatively extends Hoefler’s narrative, using eye-catching perspectives and presenting a world in which anthropomorphized woodland creatures and humans share spaces. The journey, not the destination, is the point of this rewarding story about finding courage via the gifts of friendship and abundant imagination.

Readers will especially appreciate Hoefler’s poetic and nuanced observations once Mae and Bear’s journey gets underway. There’s “a lot to notice” out the window of a train, Hoefler writes, such as “how a train carries the sky on its back.” Bagley illustrates this by depicting the new friends from behind as they take in the marvelous view of a golden meadow flanked by distant mountains. 

There’s gentle humor in Courage Hats as well, rooted in the contradictions between Hoefler’s text and Bagley’s images. When Mae first meets Bear, Hoefler (Real Cowboys) tells us that Mae has “found a big grown-up to sit with,” while Bagley depicts Bear (in his person hat) sitting next to the window of the train’s bench seat, arms crossed in his lap. Similarly, Bear is relieved to have “found a small cub to sit with.” Later, as Mae and Bear find comfort in each other’s presence, they both reflect that, if not for their newfound friendship, they “might have missed what was right next” to them.

Courage Hats is a satisfying story about facing your fears. After all, if you can’t find your courage, “you can wear it on your head at first.”

Expect the giggles to begin from the opening endpapers of Chester van Chime Who Forgot How to Rhyme. They feature small drawings, and each illustration is accompanied by a pair of rhyming words. For example, a depiction of a green slug smiling on a fluffy green rug says “Slug Rug.”

The book itself is about poor Chester van Chime, who awakens one morning to discover that he has lost the ability to rhyme. Scattered across his bedroom are objects that evoke rhymes: The same slug from the endpapers smiles happily from a green rug next to Chester’s bed, and we see two toy ducks inside a blue toy truck. Despite all these visual clues, Chester simply can’t “match up two sounds.”

Author Avery Monsen presents a text filled with rhyming couplets that fall flat on their poetic faces. “He tried not to panic. He played it real cool / and picked up his backpack and walked to his . . . / . . . learning place with teachers and stuff.” Adults, welcome to your next Best Storytime Book.

Abby Hanlon, illustrator of the side-splittingly funny Dory Fantasmagory chapter book series, brings her playful sensibilities to these vivid tableaux. Her spreads teem with rhyming pairs. Owls decorate Chester’s bathroom towel; a pup smiles from the cup on his sink; a fox steals a sock while Chester’s getting dressed; and can you guess what winged mammal appears on his doormat? As Chester’s frustrations over his failures escalate, so do the visuals. Chester’s classroom devolves into chaos as his classmates try to resuscitate his rhyming acumen.

Chester walks home from school in despair, but he soon realizes that everyone has off days and no one can be perfect all the time. Besides, by day’s end, Chester can rhyme again—for the most part. And remember those winning opening endpapers? The book’s closing endpapers feature an entirely new but equally delightful set of drawings.

It’s a must-read, a hit, a guaranteed good time. If only more books were like Chester van . . . what was his name again?

Abdul likes straight lines and a good story. But at school, Abdul struggles to keep his “scribbly, scratchy, scrawly letters” within the lines of his paper. And spelling? It’s downright impossible. “Some stories are for books,” Abdul thinks, “but not his.” When a writer named Mr. Muhammad visits Abdul’s class, he encourages Abdul to embrace his “mess,” and Abdul realizes that a good story might come from his messy writing after all.

Abdul’s Story is an honest, encouraging depiction of a boy with a learning disability and the power of finding your story. Author Jamilah Thompkins-Bigelow candidly portrays Abdul’s emotions and challenges. She captures the way his inability to write “neat sentences” leads to both feelings of failure and a sense of determination. Her narration is well balanced and invites the reader inside Abdul’s experience. Her text describes Abdul’s difficulties without specifically labeling them, so readers with a wide range of learning disabilities will be able to identify with him.

The book’s illustrations by Tiffany Rose are lively and optimistic, filled with friendly lines and details that round out the story without overwhelming the eye. Bright background colors and scenes of Abdul’s bustling neighborhood and cheerful classroom contribute to an overall sense of approachability and welcome. At one point, Abdul writes and erases so many times that he tears a hole in his paper. Ashamed, he hides under his desk and imagines “an eraser big enough to erase himself.” Rose poignantly brings this sequence to life. As Abdul crouches under the table, his eyes downcast and arms wrapped around his knees, the eraser of a giant yellow pencil has already smudged out his hands and feet.

In a picture book that centers on a character with a learning disability, different typographical choices—particularly on pages where text appears on a colored background opposite an illustration—would have increased readability for dyslexic readers. One widely cited study by Luz Rello and Ricardo Baeza-Yates, for example, suggests that dyslexic readers may find sans serif typefaces easier to read, while Abdul’s Story’s text is set in Absara, a humanist slab serif font.

In a world that can often be inaccessible, Abdul’s Story is an example of the power of casting a child with a learning disability in a starring role. As we witness Abdul working hard to improve his story, we’re reminded that very few things are ever perfect on the first try, but it’s in the trying that we eventually find success.

The opening of Mac Barnett and Kate Berube’s John’s Turn ushers readers into an elementary school. Every Friday at this particular school, students gather in the cafeteria for what’s called assembly. Best of all, if everyone behaves, one student “gets to do something for the whole school.” The school dubs this tradition “Sharing Gifts.” (In one of many instances in the book that proves Barnett is no stranger to how children think, we read: “A lot of us think that’s a kind of dumb name, but we also think Sharing Gifts is the best.”)

John is reticent and uneasy on the day of his turn for Sharing Gifts. While Mr. Ross makes announcements, John prepares behind the curtain. In a series of vignettes, we see him change into a leotard, pants and slippers. John has decided to perform ballet.

Berube’s warmly colored illustrations capture how John’s apprehension turns to confidence and even elation as he dances; his facial expressions and body language are spot-on. Much of this perfectly paced book is devoted to John’s performance, including five elegantly and economically composed, almost wordless spreads. In one, John gracefully lifts himself in an arc across the page. In the next, he moves across and down the spread in a series of steps, Berube’s sure lines showcasing his strength and skill. Near the end, a blur of movement ends in John’s beaming face as he is suspended mid-air in a leap.

Barnett wisely avoids heavy-handed commentary about ballet and gender stereotypes. There is no need for it. In John’s accomplished, nuanced and athletic performance, readers can see for themselves that boys, too, do ballet.

And anyway, at its heart, John’s Turn is about much more: It’s about the abundant and everyday courage of children, and it is also about “sharing gifts.” John faces down his fear to share his gift with determination, beauty and a style that is all his own. A true gift, indeed.

In his debut picture book, Nigel and the Moon, author Antwan Eady introduces a young boy named Nigel Strong. Every night, Nigel travels to the moon to share his hopes and aspirations. Nigel wants to go to space as an astronaut or leap like a ballet dancer, but most of all, he’d love to become a superhero.

During career week at school, Nigel is beset by doubts. As he pages through books about occupations at the library, he doesn’t find any dancers with brown skin who look like him. While his classmates eagerly announce what they want to be when they grow up, Nigel holds back. It’s one thing to share his secret dream of being a superhero with the moon, but quite another to say it out loud in his classroom. And when his classmates discuss their parents’ occupations, Nigel asks to be excused, worried that everyone will laugh because his parents don’t have “fancy jobs.”

But when Nigel’s mom, a postal carrier, and his dad, a truck driver, visit his class on the final day of career week, their enthusiasm for their work lights up the room. Nigel, too, beams with pride after his dad declares, “Raising Nigel’s been the best job we’ve ever had.” His parents’ support gives Nigel the courage he needs to share his dreams with his peers.

Illustrator Gracey Zhang’s ink, gouache and watercolor illustrations vividly capture the lush green trees and brightly colored houses over which Nigel soars each night on his way to the moon. Zhang’s images expertly convey Nigel’s emotions. The deep blue of the night sky and the large, luminous moon complement his nightly musings. In one spread, while his classmates share what their parents do for a living, Nigel sits at his desk on the opposite page, isolated and alone, surrounded by white space.

Eady’s spare text tells a simple but powerful story about believing in yourself and being proud of your family. A final, wordless image shows Nigel peering out his bedroom window at the moon once more, inviting readers to wonder what he might be dreaming of—and to consider their own hopes and dreams, too.

For readers in search of a soft spot to land, look no further than Kate Banks and Galia Bernstein’s Lost and Found.

When a mouse and a rabbit find a rag doll left behind in the forest, more furry creatures soon arrive one by one to investigate. Inquisitive but unafraid, the friends follow their curiosity to find where the doll came from so they can return it home. They journey together through the woods, tracking their only clue: footsteps left in the dirt, leading to a new and unfamiliar place . . .

Lost and Found feels both freshly original and like a cherished, well-worn tale. Many scenes juxtapose the familiar and the unfamiliar, as when the animals come to a “wide stretch of gray.” “The animals knew the forest trails thickly carpeted with leaves,” Banks writes. “But they’d never seen a road.” Readers will hear echoes of Margery Williams’ The Velveteen Rabbit and Don Freeman’s Corduroy in Banks’ text, and the band of talking animals on a mission feels warmly reminiscent of A.A. Milne’s beloved characters. Although sincere forest creatures are a children’s literature standard, it’s this same familiarity that makes Lost and Found an easy book to adore.

Bernstein’s critters’ soft fur and big eyes convey a sweet naivete and gentleness that’s instantly lovable. A forest of serene green grass and trees makes the reader feel welcome and at ease in this warm, thriving world. Bernstein leaves enough white space in her double-page spreads to ensure that her artwork is not overly cluttered. Although every page is beautifully drawn, one particular image, in which the animals are backlit by a sunset, stands out. You’ll know it when you get there, and it’s worth pausing to admire.  

Earnest and peaceful, Lost and Found is as safe and lovely as they come. It’s perfect for the quiet hush of bedtime or any situation in need of a cozy touch and a soft snuggle. Banks and Bernstein have created a wonderful tribute to the power of love and the home we carry within ourselves. Their sweet, not-so-dangerous adventure story ends like all the best adventures do: as we find our way home.

Mina the mouse is no stranger to her quirky father’s passion for bringing home discarded rubbish, odd artwork and even unusual new pets. A bit of an inventor, he’s well-meaning but inattentive, frequently declaring “Everything will be fine.” But when he ignores Mina’s concerns about his most recent pet project, which involves squirrels that look awfully feline, things quickly go from fine to not so fine. It’s up to book-smart Mina and an unexpected ally to save the day.

Matthew Forsythe’s Mina is a crafty, charming and wryly hilarious tale. Mina projects an attitude of competence and calm, while her father’s bold, geometric-patterned decor adds an eclectic energy to each page, creating a study in contrasts. Illustrations created with colored pencils, soft lines and gentle edges make this world feel lived in and tactile. Forsythe’s lively use of perspective creates a mouse’s-eye view that shrinks the reader down to Mina’s size and draws them into the story’s intimate and cozy setting, while supersized flowers and plants lend a rich vivacity to many scenes. Even the not quite menacing but slightly unsettling eyes of the so-called squirrels are tempered by earth tones and muted pastels. There’s much to see in Mina, and it’s all amusing.

Forsythe’s energetic artwork works perfectly with his unadorned narration, understated storytelling and plainspoken dialogue. As Mina’s droll observations clash with her father’s carefree assertions, Forsythe builds a tone of sophisticated, implicit humor guaranteed to have kids yelling, “THAT’S NOT A SQUIRREL!”

Readers may be tempted to look for a moral in Mina, since picture books featuring anthropomorphic animals often contain them. Indeed, the book makes a compelling case for paying heed to warnings, and readers may wonder if Mina’s father will ever learn to listen to his daughter. But Mina is so much more than a mere cautionary tale: It’s thoroughly entertaining.

Mina’s father may not be the cleverest mouse in the nest, but Mina is one of the shrewdest books on the shelf.