I KNOW A LADY

A lean, resonant Zolotow text expands, in Stevenson's free, expressive watercolor drawings, into a celebration of old-people-hood and the generation jump. "On our block there is a lady who lives alone. She works in her garden and gives us daffodils in the spring, zinnias in the summer,/chrysanthemums in the fall, and red holly berries when the snow falls." She waves to the children on their way to and from school; she makes candy apples at Halloween, cookies with sprinkles at Christmas. ("At Easter"—un-cutesily—"she makes little cakes with yellow frosting") Most happily: "She smiles at me and knows my name is Sally. She pats my dog and knows her name is Matilda." We're glad to know it too—for that saves the ending from mushiness or vapidity: "I wonder what she was like when she was a little girl. I wonder if some old lady she knew had a garden and cooked and smiled. . . .") The full-page landscape drawings of house and trees through the seasons—and, perhaps choicest, the delicate sketch of the lady's solitary walk (opposite the lines "She smiles at me. . .")—join a gentle, enduring warmth to a quiet, Imperishable loveliness.