The Neighborhood Pet Store: The Story of Every Kind of Animal Known to Man

When I stop at the Neighborhood Pet Store,

I hold the hamsters, and then stay some more.

The fish in the pond are bright and wet,

But the parrots are the best things yet!

We have a chat, and they talk back.

They are bright orange and dark black.

As I look around the lively place,

I notice each animal has its space.

Mom said I could only have one pet.

I want to choose, and not regret.

I’ll take a cat, a raccoon, and a possum.

The three of them would be awesome!

A canary or a dove would be grand.

They almost make a pigeon seem bland.

Rabbits and guinea pigs are cute and soft,

But mice and rats should live in a loft!

A duck waddles left and then right,

While geese spread their wings in flight.

Pot-bellied pigs are good for a laugh,

Not nearly as thin as a tall giraffe.

Horses and goats belong in a barn.

Oh, what a tangled ball of yarn!

Lizards and snakes slither in the grass.

I’ll hide until the critters pass.

A gerbil is nice, a turtle might do,

But really what I’m wanting is you!

A cute little puppy with floppy ears.

Now everyone give hearty cheers!

You might be the runt of the litter,

But you’re the cutest with a little glitter.

I’ll rub my nose against your nose,

And buy you fancy doggy clothes.

I’ll build you your own canine house.

Maybe I should even buy you a spouse.

Dogs really are man’s best friend.

Their paws might even cause a trend.

Go visit The Neighborhood Pet Store!

Have fun and explore the place galore,

But in the end, I’ll always want the dogs.

Never toads, and never frogs!

Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters

Beekeeper: The Story of Honey Love

Beekeeper, beekeeper,

Keep me some bees

And save me some

Sweet honey, please.

Your royal jelly

Is so divine.

I’d love me some

Fine honey wine.

Put on your hat

And your bee suit.

Your honey is

As tasty as fruit.

Thank you for your

Curious nature.

You have your own

Nomenclature.

Beekeeper, beekeeper,

Brave the bee swarm.

Your honey love

Makes my belly warm.

Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters

The Black and White Stage: The Story of Zavier the Zebra and Onyx the Horse

Every Thursday night, music shimmered over the Orange River in the Harmonic Plains of South Africa. Lanterns floated on the water like little moons, and the stars leaned close to listen at a place everyone called The Black and White Stage. It was a place where only zebras played, but they came from all over Africa to take the stage. 

That’s why Zavier the Zebra loved to perform there. In the Harmonic Plains, sound was alive. The wind hummed in rhythm, rivers sang in harmony, and each species had a unique “tone” that shaped the world’s balance. Pianos grew from the earth like crystal trees; their keys were carved from moonlight and ebony stone. 

Zebras, with their black-and-white stripes, were born with natural rhythm—their hoofbeats formed the heartbeat of the land. Zavier felt alive when he played music and knew his fellow zebras did as well. 

On one particular Thursday night, the audience of animals and townsfolk pressed close beneath the lantern light, hearts beating in time with the river’s flow. Zavier knew that they had all heard tales of the zebra who could coax jazz from moonlight and thunder from ivory keys, and now they waited—spellbound—for the first note. 

“Stripes! Give us a jazzy tune!” the crowd called.

Zavier grinned and leapt onto the stage. Two honky-tonk pianos faced each other beneath the golden lights. He balanced on the bench, his black-and-white legs stretched wide between the silver pedals. One hoof crossed over the other as he played both pianos at once—the right hoof dancing across the left keys, the left hoof racing across the right.

The notes burst into the air like silver stars, skipping across the river’s surface.

“Your stripes match the piano keys!” shouted a fan.

Zavier winked and smiled. “That’s why they call it the Black and White Stage!”

The crowd cheered, but when the last chord trembled into silence, Zavier sighed and rubbed his aching wrists. He felt alone. What he needed was a partner—someone who could share the music.           

“I can’t keep this up forever,” he muttered. “I need a duet partner—someone with rhythm, style, and spark!”

For days, the studio overflowed with zebras in glittery hats and polished hooves who came to audition as Zavier’s duet partner. One played a song so off-key the sheet music curled up and hid. Another complained about a chipped hoof. A third fell asleep on the keyboard, and the piano gave a tired yawn, closing its lid with a clunk. By sunset, Zavier had seen enough.

“The river could play better than this lot,” he sighed, staring out the window. “Maybe if I stop looking, the right one will find me.”

As if the river heard him, its ripples glowed faintly gold—and through the doorway stepped a black mare, her mane shimmering like liquid night.

“Maybe you’re searching in the wrong stripes,” she said softly. “I’m Onyx. I play classical piano—but I can match your jazz any day.”

Zavier hesitated. “You’re… not a zebra,” he said.

Onyx smiled. “No. But music doesn’t care about coats or colors,” she replied. 

When she sat at the piano, Zavier felt the air shift. The strings hummed before she even touched them. Then, Zavier watched her hooves dance—light, sure, and spellbinding. The melody swirled like moonlight over water, weaving through the rafters until the lanterns trembled in time.

“Did you write that?” Zavier whispered, transfixed.

“I dreamed the melody!” Onyx said. “I woke up hearing it in my head.”

Onyx smiled again, and for the first time, Zavier felt the rhythm of his heart sync with another’s.

“Play with me tonight,” he said. “At the Black and White Stage. The river’s waiting.”

“It will be the first time a black mare ever took the stage at that club,” she said with a nod. “It will be an honor.”

That evening, Zavier waited by the side of the stage for Onyx to arrive. The clock had just struck seven and his new partner was nowhere to be seen. 

Ten minutes late, she finally came rushing into the club and made her way to Zavier. He forgave her at once. 

The crowd gasped as the two musicians took the stage.

A gray stallion sat in the front row, a trumpet glinting at his side. When he lifted it, a jagged note filled with jealousy cracked through the air. The lanterns flickered, and even the river recoiled. His sound wasn’t evil—only empty, full of noise but no soul.

Bitter at Zavier for his beautiful music, the gray stallion lashed out at Onyx.

“Your duet partner’s a horse?” jeered the gray stallion. “Couldn’t you find yourself a zebra?”

He hurled a fat tomato; it burst across Onyx’s mane like a crimson stain. The crowd fell silent. Onyx took a breath, lifted her chin, and calmly wiped the pulp away. Her eyes glowed faintly—not with anger, but with light. Zavier knew that she would not be bullied by anyone. 

“Only zebras have ever played the Black and White Stage,” said the club owner uneasily. “It’s the rule.”

“Then it’s time we changed the tune,” said Zavier. “Music has no race or color. Maybe the world’s ready for a new sound.”

“It would be my honor to perform for the audience this evening,” Onyx said, brushing her mane from her face. 

The club manager looked at the crowd for a moment. Certainly, Onyx’s gorgeous songs would be good for business. 

“Well, let her play,” the club manager said. The crowd slowly began to clap. 

Then, she began to play. Halfway through the song, a piano string snapped with a sharp twang. Zavier could hardly believe that the piano had malfunctioned. 

For a heartbeat, the audience held its breath. Even the river fell silent.

“Just give me a moment,” Zavier said, as he knelt, tightened the string, and nodded. “Looks like we’ll be okay now.”

“Pardon me, I will start again,” Onyx said to her new fans. She drew a deep breath. 

Then she began again. 

Her music rose, pure and unbroken, like morning over the plains. Zavier joined in, his jazzy chords swirling around her melody. The air shimmered. Lanterns floated higher. The Orange River lit up with ribbons of silver, gold, and indigo, as if every color of sound had been set free.

The crowd forgot to breathe. Even the gray stallion hung his head.

When the final note faded, it drifted over the water—and the river caught it, carrying it downstream until it became part of its song.

Zavier turned to Onyx, eyes shining. “That’ll teach them to judge a musician by her coat.”

Onyx smiled, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all just black and white, Zavier—like the piano. The magic’s in how we play together.”

As the moon rose over the Orange River, the world seemed to hum in harmony—two hearts, two melodies, one spell of perfect sound. The fish leapt, and the reeds swayed in rhythm. Their duet healed the discord and even turned the gray stallion’s dusty coat bright again—a living symbol of forgiveness.

And on quiet nights, if you listen by the riverbank, you can still hear their song—two souls, two melodies, one harmony of light. At the Black and White Stage, differences became music, and music became magic.

 

Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters 

Mr. Midnight Owl: The Story of Wisdom's Word to the Wise

Everyone who’d ever camped in Yosemite National Park had heard the rumors. They said an owl named Mr. Midnight flew through the trees after dark, giving advice to anyone who would listen—whether they asked for it or not. The park rangers had never managed to catch him or prove he was real, but Chris Waitwell and his family decided to spend their vacation at Yosemite to see if they could meet him.

As far as Chris had heard, Mr. Midnight was the only owl in the park who talked. Most people laughed it off as a campfire story. But every so often, campers woke up around midnight, swore they’d heard someone quoting poetry about patience, and saw two glowing eyes watching from the trees. Local campers said Mr. Midnight had been around for decades—maybe even a century. Some claimed he perched on the highest rock of Half Dome; others swore he’d once talked a lost hiker out of the forest with nothing but poetry.

Whether the owl was real or not, the Waitwells planned to find out. When twelve-year-old Chris and his family rattled down a gravel road lined with tall pines and pulled into their campsite at noon on an October Saturday, Mr. Midnight was nowhere to be found. The air smelled of woodsmoke and river water. Far in the distance, Yosemite Falls crashed and echoed.

Around them, other campers had set up their sites—flashlights ready, zippers zipping, campfires crackling like applause. Someone strummed a guitar, and a voice drifted through the pines, low and warm. The cliffs rose so high they seemed to scrape the clouds, and the air was so clear it felt like the whole sky could hear you think.

Chris wanted to believe the stories, but part of him thought they sounded too good to be true. Then again, Yosemite didn’t feel like an ordinary place. Maybe—just maybe—the owl was waiting for them to arrive.

“How are we going to find Mr. Midnight, Dad?” Chris asked. “Do you think he comes out during the day?”

“I’m not sure, son,” said Mr. Waitwell. “Your mother thinks we should catch him and hand him over to the park rangers—just to preserve him.”

“Someone that special needs to be protected!” Mrs. Waitwell insisted, fluffing her hair. She checked her reflection in the camper window.

“I just don’t want to get bitten by an owl,” said nine-year-old Margaret, Chris’s younger sister. “I want to make s’mores.”

“Don’t worry,” Chris said. “This owl probably wouldn’t bite you. He’s supposed to be super smart. Almost like a college professor.”

Chris thought he heard a soft hoot, low and echoing, like someone whispering a secret from far away. He looked up, but the branches only swayed in the mountain breeze. He decided he would carry his notebook everywhere, just in case he spotted a rare bird or thought of a good question to ask Mr. Midnight—if the stories were true.

In the meantime, Mr. Midnight Owl slept on a hidden tree branch above the camper as Mr. Waitwell set up the family’s tent and grill. The family spent the day hiking throughout the park, but to Chris’s disappointment, he didn’t spot one owl. 

They gathered by the campfire to make a few s’mores before bed. Chris thought they tasted gooey and sweet. The perfect camping food. 

“We’re going to be here all week, Chris,” his father said. “If Mr. Midnight is here, we’re bound to spot him. I’m tired from driving. Your mother and I are going to sleep early.”

“I’m tired, too,” Margaret said with a yawn. “We can make more s’mores tomorrow night.”

After Mr. and Mrs. Waitwell and Margaret drifted to sleep, Chris ventured out into the wilderness, looking for the Owl. He took his flashlight with him.

 

The forest grew still as Chris’s flashlight beam wove through the trees. Somewhere high above, a pair of golden eyes blinked open.

“It’s midnight, and I’m wide awake,” Mr. Midnight Owl said, sitting on the edge of a tree branch in the moonlight. 

Before Mr. Midnight Owl could decide which way to fly, a flashlight glared in his face and blinded him. Two park rangers hopped out of their well-worn pickup truck.

“Those stupid park rangers!” the Owl said. “I’m not living in a cage on display!”

“We can keep you safe in our zoo!” Park Ranger Scott said, fumbling with his flashlight.  “You’re a great attraction, but you don’t get to wake up half the park!”

“Too bad for you that I’m the one with wings!” Mr. Midnight Owl screeched.

“Coming with us is for the best!” Park Ranger George said. He swung his net far and wide, trying to capture the Owl. “Then, everyone can meet you when they’re awake.”

As Mr. Midnight Owl soared away into the night, a few small pellets tumbled from the branches.

“Ugh! Really?” Park Ranger Scott groaned. “Every time! Just because we asked for your advice every now and then, you think you can do whatever you want. You think you’re so much smarter than everyone else! So, you tell everyone what to do!” 

“You have an inflated ego!” Park Ranger George shouted. 

In the meantime, the Owl set off on his nightly flybys, where he looked for camp guests in need of wisdom. Even if the campers didn’t know that they needed help, he was sure he could identify those people looking for advice. 

As Mr. Midnight glided toward the valley, the forest below shimmered silver in the moonlight. Not far away, Chris walked into the same night, hoping to meet the owl himself.

 

Almost ready to give up looking for the Owl for the night, Chris sat on a log by the campfire and gazed at the stars. By the moonlight, and certainly in the sunlight, they had an excellent view of the gorgeous Yosemite Falls. Then, Chris heard a voice in the distance.

“Tonight, I will bestow my wisdom on this family to learn about patience,” the Owl said. “Humans rush through the forest as if the stars are running out of time. But the wise wait and see what the dark is trying to show them. Patience is a virtue,” Mr. Midnight Owl said, starting his lesson with a quote from poet William Langland. 

“What? Who said that?” Chris said aloud. He zoomed his flashlight through the trees.

            “Chris! Are you still awake?” his father called from the tent. “We have to get up to go white water rafting tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe that was the s’mores talking! Did Chris eat too many?” Mrs. Waitwell asked.

“Patience is the companion of wisdom,” the Owl continued, spreading his wings. “Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. Have patience with all things, but first of all with yourself. Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.”

“Maybe Mr. Midnight came out of hiding,” Mr. Waitwell said, grabbing his flashlight and joining Chris. Mrs. Waitwell and Margaret stumbled after him in the dark. 

“It’s him, Dad!” Chris said. “I just didn’t see him yet, but I can hear him!”

“Dad, it is the Owl,” Margaret said. “Wow! I’ve never met an owl that can talk,” she said, taking a picture with a flash. Chris was not sure it would turn out well in the dark.

Then, Chris spotted the park rangers’ truck approaching, headlights glaring.

“Adopt the pace of nature, her secret is patience,” Mr. Midnight Owl said. “Be humble and gentle in every way. Be patient with each other and lovingly accept each other.”

After a moment, Mr. Midnight descended out of the trees and flew straight toward Chris.

Chris was so excited that he could hardly move. The bird landed on his shoulder and flapped his wings. While the owl blinked, the family stood in silence. Chris looked at the bird like he was a miracle.

Before Mr. Midnight could leave, Margaret snapped a picture as proof of his existence. Chris smiled as big as he could for the photo. It was a moment he would never forget.

“Amazing!” Chris said to the Owl, sitting on his shoulder. “You’re amazing!”

“Let patience have her perfect work,” the Owl said to Chris. 

Before he could forget it, Chris scribbled the saying down in his notebook.

“I’ll remember that saying forever!” Chris said to Mr. Midnight.

Then, before the park rangers could swoop Mr. Midnight into their nets, the Owl flew away, screeching: “Trees do not hurry, and still, they grow tall. The waterfalls never rush, and still, they reach the valley. Patience is how the world breathes; it is a virtue.” 

Chris wished that his new friend could have stayed longer, but he knew he had to go.

“We’re so sorry!” Park Ranger George said, shining their lights into Chris’s eyes. 

“Did you see which way the Owl went?” Park Ranger Scott asked. “We want to keep him safe with us, but he always flies away!”

“He likes to find campers sleeping around the park and wake them up and give them advice,” Park Ranger George said. “He’s a know-it-all.”

The Waitwell family sat in silence, staring at the park rangers. Chris didn’t want to give away Mr. Midnight’s whereabouts. The bird did not belong in a cage, no matter how special he was. It was better for him to be free. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chris said. “I didn’t see an owl. We were just about to go to sleep.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Waitwell said. “Good night!”

The Waitwell family scurried into their tent and zipped it shut. 

That night, long after the park rangers drove away, Chris dreamed of moonlight and wings. When he woke, the only sound was the whisper of the river—but he could’ve sworn he heard a soft voice say, “Patience is a virtue.”

He laughed into the dark, knowing Mr. Midnight was out there somewhere, waiting.

The next morning, sunlight poured through the trees. The forest looked calm, ordinary—except for a single feather beside his notebook. Chris tucked it between the pages and listened. Somewhere high above, a faint hoot echoed through the cliffs. He smiled. Somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he heard from Mr. Midnight.

 

Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters