Horace Won't Sing

Book summary

Horace Won't Sing follows the curious sounds and conversations coming from young Horace's room, sparking wonder in his parents about his mysterious connection with a talking conch shell. This playful story, blending poetry and prose, explores themes of trust, identity, and acceptance, offering a delightful journey for readers of all ages.

Excerpt from Horace Won't Sing

Monday

Poppa stopped reading his newspaper. “What’s that strange sound?”

Momma stopped reading her book. “It’s coming from Horace’s room.”

“What does he do in there every night?” Poppa snapped.

“He won’t tell me,” Momma whined.

“Well, I can’t stand it!”

Poppa jumped up from his chair.

“Neither can I.” Momma sprang from her own.

Together they climbed the living room stairs

And walked down the hall to Horace’s room.

Poppa raised his fist to pound on the door.

Momma raised her hand and held Poppa back.

“Let’s try the keyhole,” Poppa whispered.

“It’s not right to spy,” Momma whispered back.

Poppa and Momma scampered away

and hid around the corner out of Horace’s sight.

Dressed in his jammies, all snuggly warm,

Horace walked down the stairs

to say “Goodnight.”

But…They weren’t there.

“Momma? Poppa? I’m ready for bed now.”

Momma and Poppa stumbled down the stairs.

“Here we are, dear.” They were sprawled on the floor.

Looking at those innocent blue eyes,

they both felt so guilty for spying…or trying.

It just didn’t matter what Horace was doing

in his room all alone every night.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Was he?

He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Was he?

But what was that mysterious sound?

“Where did you go, Momma?”

“We were looking for something in the closet.”

“Did you find it?”

“Find what, dear?”

“That thing in the closet?”

“No, Horace, we didn’t.”

“Poppa?”

“Yes, Horace.”

“Do I have to do something if I don’t want to do it?”

“Well, no. Not usually. Is there something specific you don’t want to do?”

“Yes,” Horace answered.

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

Poppa sighed. “Okay, Horace. Now go off to bed.”

Momma hugged her son tightly and kissed him a big one. Poppa ruffled his strawberry hair.

“Goodnight, Horace.”

“Goodnight,” Horace said. 

Tuesday

Poppa’s eyebrow shot up. “There it is again. That same strange sound.”

Momma set her mouth firmly. “I’m going to ask him.”

“No, don’t. I have an idea. We’ll sneak out the back and climb up the tree.”

“The tree!? Me?!”

“Yes. Then we can peek in his bedroom window.”

Momma was shocked. “That’s worse than the keyhole!”

“But we have to find out what he’s doing up there, for his own good. We have to protect him.”

“From what?”

“That’s what we have to find out.”

Momma nodded. “You’re right.”

“Climb the tree?” Poppa suggested.

“Climb the tree.” Momma agreed.

Together they tiptoed, as quiet as mice

through the rooms of the house to the patio door.

Outside they stood at the foot of the oak tree

that towered majestically high in the sky.

“See that branch?” Poppa pointed to one limb that stretched out like an arm open wide. “We can sit on it safely and still be out of sight.”

Together they climbed to the branch of the tree

and sat quietly still in the shadows of moonlight.

Luckily, Horace’s shade wasn’t pulled,

and the view of his room revealed nothing suspicious,

just furniture, toys, some pictures and books.

But, there – by the bookshelf –

Momma saw Horace doing something funny.

“What’s that thing he’s holding up to his ear?”

“I think it’s a seashell,” Poppa guessed.

“It’s a conch shell,” Momma corrected him.

“Horace must be listening to the sound of the ocean.”

“No. He’s talking into the shell.”

“He’s making that sound!” Poppa cried.

“He’s not talking into the shell, he’s singing into it.”

“Singing?” It doesn’t sound like any song I ever heard.”

“But, listen. It’s quite nice – in an unusual sort of way.”

“Very unusual. No wonder he’s keeping it a secret.”

“Why won’t he tell us he can sing?” Momma wondered.

“Because he doesn’t want to,” Poppa grumbled.

“Because he doesn’t have to,” Momma mumbled.

“Who said he doesn’t have to?”

“You did.”

“I did?”

“Before he went to bed,” Momma reminded him.

“Oh.” Poppa remembered. “I did, didn’t I.”