MAGNUS MAXIMUS, A MARVELOUS MEASURER

Magnus Maximus has a walrus mustache, a benign countenance and a preoccupation: measuring and counting. He doodles about his day, counting this and measuring that—petals on a geranium, raisins in a bun, wetness and dryness, nearness and farness—then slapping the tally, jotted on a piece of paper, onto the object of his interest. Seemingly oblivious, he corrals an escaped lion to do some close calculations and for his good citizenry is named his town’s official measurer. Maximus myopically goes on his way until he breaks his glasses and learns that there is more to life than numbers—like waves to splash in and “the snugness of a hand in a hand.” This is a lovely marriage of word and image. Pelley’s text is brightly humorous and musical—“Now that he was the town’s official measurer, Magnus Maximus had to measure all kinds of NESSes, from the wobbliness of a jellyfish to the itchiness of an itch”—and that goes for Schindler’s illustrations as well, with their busily elegant line work, their lustrous washes of color and, best of all, their high and brilliant tomfoolery. (Picture book. 5-10)