Hart and Warburton serve forth another princess with far too many peas in her life.
Just by the look of her, readers know Lily-Rose May is “a sweet little girlie; / her eyes were bright blue and her hair was so curly.” She and her dad live in the woods: “She was kind and polite and was usually good.” Then comes the day her dad tries to foist peas on her, and Lily-Rose May will have none of it. “Her hands were all sweaty. Her skin felt so crawly.” She isn’t faking; the peas really do make her sick, and then comes the doctor’s diagnosis: Lily-Rose May is a princess. His prescription is for her to move to the castle. No peas there, thank goodness, but there is cold cabbage stew and all the demands of royalty that diminish the allure of the big house and nice clothes. Papa and his peas suddenly look very good. The story here is meager and mild to the point of vanishing: nothing syrupy, no hard yuks at anyone’s expense. What keeps the book aloft, and it does hover nicely, especially for the front end of its age range, is the sheer musicality of the verse, which slips off the tongue as if it had been greased, and the merry artwork, which is buoyant and full of colors that rove between springlike and ribbon candy.
A well-fashioned, if thinly sliced, tale of the well-traveled princess. (Picture book. 3-6)