THE SECRET CIRCUS

Somewhere, beneath the twinkling lights of Paris, there is a circus. It is a secret circus. Only the mice know where it is. Only the mice know when to go. When it is time, families don their best patchwork frocks and wide-brimmed hats. They climb into walnut-shell hot-air balloons or scurry in long lines, head to tail, as the Eiffel Tower stretches to point the way. Only the mice know how it’s hidden. Only the mice know what they’ll see there. Amid whiskered cannonball daredevils, tottering pyramids of tiny clowns and the bravest of all—the housecat tamer—Wright tells a sweet, lulling story. Her roly-poly mice are shaped like candy-drop kisses and the hush of the gentle, repetitive text whispers through the pages. The placement of opaque, black-outlined characters against gossamer-tinted painted-canvas backgrounds only heightens the surreal intimacy of the experience. It is, after all, a secret. A quiet, comforting debut, best shared snuggled close together. (Picture book. 2-6)