"quiet, Wyatt!"

Maynard takes on a universal experience of childhood and pushes it in alarming directions. No matter what he wants to do, Wyatt is told he's too little: the big kids won't let him fly a model plane, his big sister won't let him dry the car she's washing, his father won't let him fry an egg, and his mother won't let him buy a puppy. Wyatt then proves his immaturity by asserting himself, only to be drowned out by several choruses of ""Quiet, Wyatt!"" He resolves not to speak: not when the big kids lose their plane and he knows where it is, not when clouds approach to abolish his sister's efforts to polish the car, not when an egg is falling off a counter, and not when the mailman's laces are untied and he takes a fall. Only a puppy under the wheels of the mail truck can break Wyatt's silence, and after he saves the puppy, he's allowed many new privileges. The gouache and colored pencil illustrations are done on colored paper, which makes for a satisfying texture behind the round-headed figures and familiar domestic scenes. The soothing resolution--Wyatt gets a puppy he probably doesn't deserve--will not persuade children that adults are just, but that they can be steered into decisions.