I doubt that I’m the only one who wanted to live in a dugout and eat vanity cakes (“because they are all puffed up, like vanity, with nothing solid inside”) after reading this book. My introduction to Wilder’s world was the fourth book in the series, ON THE BANKS OF PLUM, CREEK and it remains my favorite. To me, Wilder will always be the little girl who ran barefoot through fragrant prairie grasses with her sunbonnet dangling down her back. ), long-legged (“Snipes!”), and sometimes naughty (and excellent at revenge). But in my mind, there is no Laura Ingalls Wilder the grown-up writer, there is only Laura Ingalls: spritely (twinkly-eyed, like Pa), braided (blue bows only, please, except that once . . . Laura Ingalls Wilder would have turned 150 this year.
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