Deep in the backyard forest, far from the green grass and beds of blooming things, a table stood. In it, inches of white powder. Nearby, cylinders of jewel-toned liquids lined rustic benches, each for its own small scientist.
They approached cautiously. Smelly liquid, albeit lovely in color, held scant allure. Beyond the forest patch stood playground, sand pile, balls, a bat.
Ever slowly, each small scientist chose a pipette, warily filling it with foul fluids. Upon discovering the marriage of white powder and foul-smelling stuff – how it fizzed! how it fizzled! – they set to work.
And there was silence in Preschool Land for a solid thirty minutes.
They squirted colors and observed them sizzle. They merged color with color, creating tiny volcanoes which erupted with amethyst or azure lava. They dredged ruby rivers. They squished snowy dust into a solid mass, spilling forth from teeming tubes.
They piled, dumped, scooped, squirted. And they did all this in the quiet, calm, stillness of the forest, where stood a table of baking soda and tubes of dyed vinegar.
