The hole in the narrator's garden starts out small in January, so he drops in his best marble, but no marble tree grows. Each month, the hole grows bigger, and he keeps trying to see what will grow. A candy tree in February? Nope. A flashlight tree in March? No luck. A robot tree? Dinosaur tree? House tree? What will he throw in the hole next? And will anything eventually grow? The plot is simple but completely compelling, and the payoff of the final foldout spread oiler alert: something does indeed grow a surprising and satisfying treat. The layout of the book is aesthetically charming, with small black-and-white illustrations on each text page serving as clues for the full-color illustrations that follow, which is terrific for encouraging prediction in early literacy development. The tone is humorously deadpan is book is begging to be performed aloud d the simple, bright illustrations (reminiscent of Oliver Jeffers' quirky style) encourage conversation on everything from the progression of seasons to size and scope.

In January, a boy drops a marble in a small hole in his garden, hoping to grow a marble tree. Each month, the hole gets bigger and the ever-hopeful boy drops in progressively larger objects (dinosaur, house, rocket, etc.). A final fold-up page reveals his surprising reward. The deadpan text and black-and-white spot art on verso pages face full-page illustrations of increasingly ridiculous offerings.

A young child narrates a year's worth of attempts to sow fanciful trees by directing increasingly larger items into an ever widening hole in his backyard. In January, the narrator drops their "best marble" into the narrow crevice, the bottom of which is hidden below the picture plane. In February readers learn, "Marble trees don't grow overnight," but "Maybe some candy will grow." As seasons change, the hole widens—inextricably—and visual perspective shifts, with the child (and a deciduous tree on the other side of the hole) appearing ever tinier as the things tossed into it (a grand piano, a freight train, a rocket) grow more substantial. In November, the hole's so big that the moon fits in. In December, the child lists the 11 previous no-show trees and looks "in a book to figure out what to do. The only thing that fits in a black hole is a star." The kid catches a five-pointed one and drops it down. "I can't wait to see my star tree." The enormous star dominates the page, the walls of the hole pushed to the margins and the child and tree minuscule—and when readers open the vertical gatefold they'll see a tall, star-topped Christmas tree, festooned with glowing moons, flashlights, marbles, candy, and all the other pitched items. Any intimation of cosmic transcendence is subverted by this earthbound, holiday-themed pièce de résistance—at once gimmicky and anticlimactic. The narrator is white.Twee and inessential, at Christmas or any other time of year. (Picture book. 3-5)