I remembered this book from my childhood with such fondness that I had to buy it for my own kids, now my eldest, at six, is old enough to get something from it. Re-reading it as an adult I only appreciate it all the more, and am struck by how many lines had survived in my memory - testament to the directness and striking quality of the writing, not the quality of my leaky-sieve memory! I love the dry self-sufficiency of the protagonist, Jennifer, and her growing and surprising friendship with the at-first cartoonishly unlikeable Lizzie McBride. The prose is understated without lacking depth, and there is a certain mournful but not ;achrymose quality to the book's whole feel. The author captures perfectly the balance between what children see as possible and what they take for granted; it's a particular kind of magic that Sheila Greenwald weaves here perfectly. I'd love to see this brought back into print.