Amelia: Is this good?
George: Yes. Stay like that. Smile. A little more… a little less, maybe?
Amelia: George, just take the picture!
George showed Amelia the photo and she made a face.
Amelia: George, I look ridiculous. But this book is very good, and I’m so thrilled it’s coming out. It’s one of my best! I mean… well, Patricia’s best… But I worked so hard on this book with her, and I really think it’s good!
George: Okay, let’s try again. This time, just look at me and remember how good it is, and what a terrific editor you are.
And that was the perfect shot. Amelia was a terrific editor! And she was a beautiful frog, too. Even though she thought she looked silly in pictures, George knew the truth.
The leaves were changing color and falling to the ground. Fall had finally come to Alberta, and while the days were warm and a little sweaty, the nights were chilly and the leaves spun lazily down to the ground.
It was the perfect weather for long, meandering walks together, and Amelia and George liked to take advantage of walks. Being newlyweds, they couldn’t afford much else!
Amelia: Remember when you used to take me for walks when we were dating?
George: Of course! My hands would sweat and I’d try to think of intelligent things to say to you.
Amelia: I remember you telling me I was pretty, George.
George: It was true. And while any numb-skulled nitwit could see that you were pretty, I was brave enough to tell you.
Amelia: Oh, George…
While taking a long walk with Amelia, George was in a youthful, bouncing, vibrant kind of mood. And he climbed up a tree to show off. He wanted to reach a perfect apple for Amelia. But as George reached for the apple, he felt himself slip, and he came tumbling out of tree.
He landed with a thud on the ground next to Amelia. He looked up at her, a little stunned, his vision swimming.
Amelia: George, are you okay? Are you hurt?
George: That was close. I almost fell.
Amelia: You did fall, George.
George rolled over and got up, hobbling with one sore ankle.
George: Very nearly.
George squinted up at the apple.
George: That apple isn’t ripe yet. When it’s perfect, I’ll get it for you.
George would never admit to falling out of a tree, but he would accept Amelia’s help as he limped back toward home.
I hope you are enjoying these little stories from the knitted frogs who live in the dollhouse rooms above my desk. I also hope you’ll pick up a copy of A Boy’s Amish Christmas. It would mean ever so much to Amelia… and to me.
Happy reading!
❤
Patricia Johns 
Your comments make me feel warm and fuzzy. Seriously!