Guess the Author's Age Challenge!

I’ve always really enjoyed writing, although my planning has often over-reached my ability.  (Like that 24 book series I planned at age thirteen.  None of which have been written yet…)  My mother claims that I wrote my first story in second grade.  It was about dragons and was about thirty words long.  Which means that I’ve been writing for… argh… over twenty years.  Especially in the early days, I was happy any time I put a good sentence together, regardless of whether it helped the story or not.  So I have a lot of story bits in my junk drawer.

So can you tell how old I was when I wrote each of these?  I haven’t fixed any spelling or grammar mistakes.  Comment with what you think!

Here are your options: ages 9, 13, 15, 17, 25.

1. From Another Little Dragon:

 

One morning Little Dragon got up and went out on the ledge to wait for breakfast.  After a long time (or at least it seemed long to him) he went back inside.  Mother Olive was not awake.  This was very strange.  Little Dragon peered at Mother Olive, who was curled around with her head on her tail.

“sleepysleepy Mother Olive.  sleepall day!”  He felt very impatient.  He had not eaten for a whole week, so he was hungryhungry for breakfast.  He went back out on the ledge, to hang his tail over the edge and snap at swallows and sulk.  Silly Little Dragon!

2. From The Cry of the Wolf: 

 

A nine year old boy lay among cushions and quilts, listening to the night.  From the peaks came a long, heartrending cry, echoing like the toll of a brazen bell.  As the sound elongated, the maker of the cry pitched the sound into a inhuman wail.  It was the call of the hunt, the cry of the pack, the symbol of everything wild and wonderful.  It was the cry of the wolf.

3. From The House at Fairfield:

To Officer Edgar Dutton, Manaton Regiment, Versailles, France

Dear Edgar,                                                     May 7^th, 1817

I hope that you are well.  I am very fine, except for the usual oppression of my studies.  I think that you have made a very good escape, because if you had stayed, you might be studying the Greeks and Romans beside me.  If I were a boy, I should run off to France just as you have done.  There, has not my grammar improved?  Mr. Camden does not care about it so very much, as long as what I write is understandable, but Mrs. Manville is most par-tic-u-lar.  You are very lucky to be a boy; boys leave the nursery much earlier and are not oppressed with governesses.

I cannot answer for Mother’s health, nor for Father’s; they are both in London for the Season.  Frederick is still at Oxford.  He writes once in a while, but his letters never contain anything of interest.  It must be very hard, studying for the law, and yet by all accounts he is doing very well.  I sent your last letter on to him; I hope you do not mind.

Laura is not so well; she has acquired a slight cold.  It has been very damp this spring.  She insists upon practicing her piano in the early morning with the windows open.  Shocking, shocking!  Myself, I prefer to go for walks at that time of day.  Mrs. Manville has taken to rising early in order to keep me inside until the sun has burned the dew away.  I do not like to walk when the sun is high; it is too hot.  It has grown warm very early this year.

I must stop now, and go in; it is dinner time and Mrs. Manville will be coming to look for me any moment.  I apologize for the shortness of my letter; but as usual I have no excuse, except that very little has happened worth writing about.  But, I almost forgot: there is one piece of news.  Mother is coming home next month, rather early for her, and she is bringing a small party of “friends”, of whom I have never heard before.  I think I can imagine what goal she has in mind…

Now goodbye, Edgar, and be careful.  Know that I am your ever affectionate

                                                                                    Beatrice Dutton

4. From The Midknight Train:

Baeric reached back and scratched at the base of Gwyvar’s crest.  The wyvern hissed with pleasure, protruding a forked tongue from between formidable crocodilian fangs.  A small tendril of smoke wisped from his nostrils.  “We’re in trouble, lad.  Mickle trouble than we’ve been een before.  It’ll be a sorry time, ye ken?”  Gwyvar trilled reassuringly and raised his crest, studying the shadows with mock suspicion.  Baeric chuckled.

Suddenly there was a muted roar like the sound of a forest fire, if a forest fire were a beast that could be unchained.  Baeric rose to his feet, grasping for his ever-present claymore.  Who would dare invade Castle Edinborough itself?  Gwyvar straightened, smoke billowing from his mouth, his throat vibrating with a shrill cry that pierced through the noise.  The King’s hands were white-knuckled as he grasped the window lintel, striving to see through the dancing shadows to what was happening below.  There came the sound of men in pain and the brutal clash of arms.

5. From Tales from the World of Firstlight

 

“Ah, I see thy servants have turned out to greet me,” the Duke said in a loud, cheerful voice.  “Do introduce me, sudhi Sahathen.”

Sahathen did not seem to relish the idea of interrupting their conference for such niceties.  “My master forester, Hidhelabanh,” he said coolly, his voice clipped.  “His wife.  My cook.  Su’Ithreorh Atan-eri, my master of elk and tax collector.”

 

“And who’s this?” the duke smiled, ruffling Arimond’s hair.  “A nephew, perhaps, by his coat?”

“My son, lord Duke.”

“Your son?  Did I know thou had a son?  I can’t believe I would have forgotten!” the duke exclaimed.  “How old are thou, Sahathen-eri, and what do they call thee?”

Arimond gulped.  No one had told him he would have to speak to the Duke.  Still, the Duke did not seem to be very frightening; he reminded Arimond of a younger Hidhelabanh, with a finer tunic on.  “Arimond, sir, seven summers, sir.  Lord Duke.  Sir.”

“Ah!  Thou are not many years younger than my son.  Thy father must send thee up to visit us some winter.  My son will not have many liegemen so close to his own age.”

Go up to the duke’s house?  That was a rather frightening idea.  But perhaps the duke would forget about it if Arimond said something else.  “I didn’t know thou had a son, sir.  I would have thought thee too young,” he said, craning his neck to look up at the duke.

The duke’s mouth twitched in amusement at the same moment Arimond heard a gasp from Bheda-cook.  “Thou had better watch this one, Sahathen,” he rumbled wryly.  “We’ll be seeing him in the high court one of these days.”

[because the reason for their shock isn't obvious: this language has both a formal and informal second-person pronoun, the same way Spanish does.  thee/thou is the informal form.]