As a kid, I can’t remember reading non-fiction for pleasure, though I turned to it reluctantly when I had a school project. I’m assuming my aversion was typical, and that it goes some way to explaining the way non-fiction has reshaped itself in recent years, so that it reads not as dry chronology but as a gripping story.

Barbara Greenwood, in 1994, hit upon a successful strategy with A Pioneer Story, in which chapters of historical information are intercut with the saga of a fictional pioneer family in 1840. And Madison Press, with its I Was There series, takes single exciting historical events (the destruction of Pompeii, the first man on the moon), and shapes them into a dramatic narrative structure, retelling them largely from the point of view of an eyewitness, either invented or real. Judging from the success of these books, fictionalized history seems to work as a vehicle for pleasurably imparting information to young readers.

It seems unusual then that Secrets of the Mummies, the latest I Was There book, deviates from the usual strategy. Rather than zeroing in on one key discovery and narrator, the book offers a more traditionally omniscient overview of its subject. In succinct chapters we learn how and why the Egyptians made mummies and how grave-robbers and then early archeologists plundered tombs. Author Shelley Tanaka’s sentences are clean and vivid, and she picks details that are sure to appeal to kids: “The stomach, liver, intestines and lungs were removed through an incision in the abdomen. The brain was removed through the nostrils, using special hooks and spoons. Unlike the other organs, which were carefully dried and wrapped, the brain was thought to be of no importance and was thrown away.”

Tanaka focuses on two major finds – the discoveries of the tombs of Ramses II and Tutankhamen – and provides pithy one-page overviews of each king’s life. But unlike other books in this series, there’s no sense of excitement or building drama. The information itself is fascinating, but a little detached for readers who have grown used to feeling as if they themselves were on the Titanic when it sank, or had molten lava showering their bodies at Pompeii. Perhaps in an attempt to inject a more personal point of view into the book, Tanaka imagines the lives of two Egyptians whose mummies are on display in Toronto’s Royal Ontario Museum. Using biographical evidence gleaned from the hieroglyphs on the cases, and the forensic profiles of the bodies within – their age, what they might have died of – she inventively conjures up arresting snapshots of these two people. It left me wanting more of the same.

Mummies is a gorgeous-looking book – Greg Ruhl’s illustrations are exemplary, as are the numerous colour photographs of Egyptian ruins and antiquities. But allow me to say a few uncharitable words about sidebars, of which there are plenty here. While they certainly enhance the visual appeal of a book, they also by their very nature sever narrative continuity. Who has the discipline to stick to the core text without breaking away to guiltily gobble up some slickly presented information McNuggets? Many contend that sidebars are added value, but for me their presence undercuts (and maybe even betrays an insecurity in) the merit of the central text, which should be able to hold a reader’s attention without these distractions.

Monique Keiran’s Albertosaurus: Death of a Predator, I’m glad to say, eschews sidebars altogether. Though this first book in the new Discoveries in Palaeontology series lacks the visual splendour of Mummies, its successfully varied structure and pace should hold a reader interested in dinosaurs and archeology. Keiran constructs two converging narratives: the discovery in 1991 of a young Albertosaurus skeleton in Alberta’s badlands, its retrieval, and reconstruction; and a fictional account of the same Albertosaurus’s life, death, and fossilization. Punctuating these two stories are pithy lessons on such things as fossil formation, and the anatomy and habits of tyrannosaurs (the family of large meat-eaters that Albertosaurus belongs to).

Though the book’s page design is conservative, it has a simple and striking cover, plenty of colour photographs of the badlands, the sites, scientists, and excavated bones, and many illustrations of duelling tyrannosaurs. Written under the auspices of the Royal Tyrrell Museum, Keiran’s text gets off to a bit of a slow start with a lengthy lyrical description of the badlands, and ends on a somewhat corporate note with a plug for the museum. Albertosaurus is obviously for slightly older kids than Mummies: the vocabulary is more advanced, and greater concentration is required as the descriptive passages and scientific writing are occasionally a bit turgid. With its focus on one particular species of dinosaur, and one excavation, Albertosaurus offers a depth of information you wouldn’t get in a more general book on dinosaurs.

Albertosaurus and Mummies, while hardly polar opposites, demonstrate different attitudes toward non-fiction. While both offer interesting treatments, Mummies is a more pleasing book to pick up and look through, so pleasing in fact that young readers have more temptation to skim (though perhaps it’s better they graze rather than avoid a book altogether). Less visually pleasing, with denser writing, Albertosaurus offers more information on its subject, with fewer distractions, and assumes the commitment of the reader.

This is hardly to say that Albertosaurus makes no concession to the attention span of its young readers. Woven through the book is Keiran’s sometimes lurid seven-part fiction of battling prehistoric beasts: “…the ankylosaur pivoted and swung its tail. The club hit the brother [Albertosaurus] on the chest, crushing ribs with a crunch. He shrieked and tumbled to the side of the clearing, collapsing in a choking pile as blood poured from his nose.” As far as kids are concerned, it probably beats reading about archeologists cleaning a femur with a toothbrush.