MY DINOSAUR

A little girl peers from her window in the night, waiting for her dinosaur to appear. She nips outside, whistles, and a green-mottled megacreature materializes. They cavort until first light—visiting with the denizens of the night, taking a moonlit dip, the girl reaching for the stars. She is dropped off at home for a few winks; at breakfast her mother wants to know why she has leaves in her hair. `` `I played with my dinosaur last night,' I tell her. `That's nice,' she says.'' Weatherby (illustrator of Jim Murphy's The Last Dinosaur, 1988, not reviewed) tells the story dreamily, with a near-glut of tenderness and warmth: ``My dinosaur never scares the night creatures. They like him,'' and, from her farewell song, ``Good night, my dinosaur. Sleep tight, my dinosaur. Soon I'll see you again, my very best friend.'' Younger children will find plenty of reassurance here—there is nothing to fear from the night or large beasts—but both text and illustrations are spun from sugar and far too fragile for the sharp skepticism and dinosaur expertise of the older end of the picture-book set. (Picture book. 2-5)