She is taken to the vet where she meets Kara, a zoologist, who adopts her and takes care of her. When Sunshine lays two eggs, Kara knows the eggs are infertile and will never hatch into chicks, but Sunshine takes care of them anyway. But Sunshine surprises everyone when she takes care of the baby chicks as if they were her own.
A great story about overcoming challenges and adjusting to new situations. This is a great little book. He slips out an open window. But tonight, something is…different. It is the scent of an unknown cat. During his search, he meets a skunk, raccoons, a mouse who turns into a midnight snack, and an opossum. The depictions of cats and other animals are realistic, with lots of details for readers to pore over and discover.
The two felines finally meet, and the inevitable tussle ensues, with Rusty managing to successfully chase off the culprit. The sun is just coming up when we see Rusty making his way back home for a quick bite to eat before curling up in bed with Gwen again—the story satisfyingly comes full circle.
He even protects the house from other cat intruders. Even though this is a suspenseful and enjoyable narrative, children will also learn about cat behavior. It would be a great read-aloud for any child who loves animals or an educational read for the elementary science classroom. As a little black girl falls asleep, Rusty, her cat, wakes up, slips out the window, and instantly smells an intruding cat. Intent on the other feline, Rusty avoids a skunk and leaps onto the backyard fence. Temporarily diverted by a high-pitched squeak and quick mouse hunt, Rusty watches an opossum disappear into the bushes.
See a Problem?
Finally, a scratching sound lures Rusty onto the garage roof, where he confronts the alien cat. A feisty feline fight with hissing and screeching ensues, then Rusty chases the intruder across the street. His taffy-and-white fur jumps out against the dark shapes and shadows of the backyard, highlighting his activities.
Intriguing peek into the secret life of cats. Children are encouraged to look out for all the critters Rusty encounters on his way as well as instances of his heightened use of hearing, vision, touch, balance, and smell, all integral cat behavior, whether snuggling with a friendly little human or getting ready to pounce on a backyard predator. The strength and survival of the animals is illustrated by luminous paintings featuring the interdependence of each strand of the food web.
The repeating verse style will engage young readers as they gain an appreciation of the plants, fish, and other sea creatures that live in and around the reef. Uncluttered watercolors convey a sense of balance and harmony. Teachers will welcome this appealing introduction…. The paintings are beautiful, realistic, and full of detail.
pond an almost true story tales from the moonlit road book 1 Manual
The final two pages identify the illustrated species and give more detailed information on Antarctica, including how icebergs are formed and threats to the continent. My three-year old daughter and I both love this book. It reads like fiction but is filled with facts. With different species of animals dependent on it for survival, the gopher tortoise presents a fascinating study of ecological interdependency.
Because the gopher tortoise digs burrows for its dens in parts of Florida, Georgia, Alabama, and other Southeastern states of the US, many other species including skunks, birds, frogs, mice and snakes depend on the burrows for their own protection and survival of their young. Other insects use the burrows and other birds eat the insects that thrive in the burrows, completing yet more circles of interdependency. Even a bobcat may use a large burrow to hide and cool itself, while birds such as bobwhites, rabbits and lizards also find refuge in the burrows.
In this way the life activities of the gopher tortoise provide protective, favorable habitat for a whole spectrum of living creatures who depend upon the continued survival of the gopher tortoise species for survival. The beautiful detailed illustrations show many of the different animals in their natural settings, enhancing appeal to an audience of children ages Surprisingly, the gopher tortoise significantly affects more than different kinds of animals that depend upon its burrows for shelter, food, or a place to raise young.
This is a fascinating look at how one species can affect the fate of many. Who was the old man whose picture hung on the staircase, sitting at a table, with a skull under his hand? I know master brought her back with him from his walk one day, and give orders to Mrs Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as she should be took every care with. Dear, dear!
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But it went the same way with him. The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen in miscellaneous cross-examination of Mrs Bunch and in eff orts to extract a tune from the hurdy-gurdy. That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at the top of the house, in which his bedroom was situated, there was an old disused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed, and, since the muslin curtains which used to hang there had long been gone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed to the wall on the right hand, with its head towards the window.
On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott found himself, as he thought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shining through the window, and he was gazing at a figure which lay in the bath. A figure inexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour, enveloped in a shroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked into a faint and dreadful smile, the hands pressed tightly over the region of the heart. As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issue from its lips, and the arms began to stir.
The terror of the sight forced Stephen backwards and he awoke to the fact that he was indeed standing on the cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light of the moon. With a courage which I do not think can be common among boys of his age, he went to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if the figure of his dreams were really there.
It was not, and he went back to bed. Mrs Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story, and went so far as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of the bathroom. The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr Abney frequently reminded his cousin, adding that this had been always considered by the ancients to be a critical time for the young: that Stephen would do well to take care of himself, and to shut his bedroom window at night; and that Censorinus had some valuable remarks on the subject.
The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that he had passed—though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had. The following evening Mrs Bunch was occupying herself in mending his nightgown. Look here, sir, what trouble you do give to poor servants that have to darn and mend after you! There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton series of slits or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly require a skilful needle to make good. They were confined to the left side of the chest—long, parallel slits about six inches in length, some of them not quite piercing the texture of the linen.
Stephen could only express his entire ignorance of their origin: he was sure they were not there the night before. Mrs Bunch gazed at him open-mouthed, then snatched up a candle, departed hastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs. In a few minutes she came down. Herewith Mrs Bunch addressed herself to mending the injured nightgown, with intervals of meditation, until bedtime.
This was on a Friday night in March, On the following evening the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs Bunch was augmented by the sudden arrival of Mr Parkes, the butler, who as a rule kept himself rather to himself in his own pantry. He did not see that Stephen was there: he was, moreover, flustered and less slow of speech than was his wont. Rats talking in the wine-cellar indeed! Master Stephen? In fact, Master Stephen knew much too well to suppose that Mr Parkes had in the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, not altogether pleasantly, in the situation; but all his questions were unsuccessful in inducing the butler to give any more detailed account of his experiences in the wine-cellar.
We have now arrived at March 24, It was a day of curious experiences for Stephen: a windy, noisy day, which filled the house and the gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by the fence of the grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne on resistlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to catch at something that might arrest their flight and bring them once again into contact with the living world of which they had formed a part.
After luncheon that day Mr Abney said:. I shall be busy until that time, and I wish to show you something connected with your future life which it is most important that you should know. You are not to mention this matter to Mrs Bunch nor to anyone else in the house; and you had better go to your room at the usual time. He looked in at the library door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw a brazier, which he had often noticed in the corner of the room, moved out before the fire; an old silver-gilt cup stood on the table, filled with red wine, and some written sheets of paper lay near it.
Mr Abney was sprinkling some incense on the brazier from a round silver box as Stephen passed, but did not seem to notice his step. The wind had fallen, and there was a still night and a full moon. Still as the night was, the mysterious population of the distant moonlit woods was not yet lulled to rest. From time to time strange cries as of lost and despairing wanderers sounded from across the mere. They might be the notes of owls or water-birds, yet they did not quite resemble either sound.
The Maggie B.
Were not they coming nearer? Now they sounded from the nearer side of the water, and in a few moments they seemed to be floating about among the shrubberies. Then they ceased; but just as Stephen was thinking of shutting the window and resuming his reading of Robinson Crusoe, he caught sight of two figures standing on the gravelled terrace that ran along the garden side of the Hall—the figures of a boy and girl, as it seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows.
Something in the form of the girl recalled irresistibly his dream of the figure in the bath.
Paw Tracks in the Moonlight
The boy inspired him with more acute fear. Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over her heart, the boy, a thin shape, with black hair and ragged clothing, raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and of unappeasable hunger and longing. The moon shone upon his almost transparent hands, and Stephen saw that the nails were fearfully long and that the light shone through them. As he stood with his arms thus raised, he disclosed a terrifying spectacle.
In another moment this dreadful pair had moved swiftly and noiselessly over the dry gravel, and he saw them no more. The study or library opened out of the front-hall on one side, and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not take long in getting there. To effect an entrance was not so easy.
The Moonlit Road
This truth about the reeds washes over the narrator a sudden wave of curiosity about what's there, in the ground. She'll clean up outside, she decides, she'll cut out the dead stuff, trim the overgrowth, sweep the leaves from her steps; she'll get under the leaves, and under the stones until they stand naked before her. Because she is a person who is conscious of herself and her surroundings, her curiosity is tinged with the awareness that she is changing along with the landscape.
She wills the change. The structural language decomposition at the end of The Gloves Are Off becomes Finnegan's Wake -like as the narrator falls into a deeper layer of consciousness. Images and phrases come like spits of the mind, like neurons firing but not quite connected to where they might need to go to form the completed thought or feeling.
Bennett consciously captures this experience of preconscious exposure. The narrator is aware of watching her own hands tear into the earth. She is her own subject and object. From a thatched roof repair to the stones to a world under the earth, where sit women in simpering huts, with no way out.
This landscape, this nonromantic landscape, is not intended to tell a story so much as to paint a picture of consciousness. And it succeeds. Bennett uses wonderful words to describe semi-conscious events. She might even send you to the dictionary once in a while. The joy of words lives in her work.
Words make art, and I worry that the Internet is partly robbing people of the chance to know what it is like to get lost in words, really lost in a forest of words, like we can do reading Faulkner, Joyce, Conrad. Bennett loves words. Oh, Bennett loves a whirl-about, a tale and I think of the Pond stories as tales begun in an ordinary fashion that without warning drops you down the rabbit hole.
You start thinking, well, yes, this ivy is smart. And it is. She has fallen into the earth! Lady of the House has a narrator whose thoughts are so scrambled they include the vision of a monster. A monster? Bennett's unusual sensory awareness, always present, jolts with each new description and highlights her sense of humor, another strain that weaves around her work.
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Why not indeed. As if it were a simple thing to recover substratal figments, an everyday occurrence. I could get psychological, could analyze the monster symbolism and lots of other symbolisms , and it would be fun, perhaps, but the narrator at her windowsill is even more fun:. Everyone should have a monster, you would think. She likes hers; where would she be without it? In The Big Day , preparations are underway to celebrate the revival of the narrator's neighborhood — it gardens and various properties. The narrator won't attend, she's not really interested, but she is interested in the properties of the stones on her refurbished cottage rental and the landscape itself.
It is difficult to describe a living, changing organism like a landscape in stationary words and pictures, language like that. She lets us know that:. This reminds me of Joyce's opening paragraphs in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , where the first words of the "nicens little boy named baby tuckoo" were his sensory impressions of hot, cold, wet, and smelly.
Bennett's narrator, at a loss for words examining the stones on the back of her cottage, notices their irregularity.
They're not uniform and the small ones look overpowered by the cumbersome large ones. The smaller stone configuration on the back side of the cottage reminds her of the smaller constellations visible on a clear night. But this image only seems nice; something in nature is turning moody and dark. The smaller stone constellation, like the smaller star constellations, is muted like the mute words still simmering betwixt her organs. These smaller stones are like. In a May 26, article in The Irish Times , Claire-Louise Bennett said that she writes not necessarily to connect with other people.
This state cannot be maintained indefinitely. Who would want it to? The world we walk upon comes bumping back into us. I think I'll stop here. I could go on. Just one more passage, though, from To a God Unknown. Here, a mountain waits for a storm that comes around to swirl about it, comforting it.
The reader at first may consider the effect of the storm on the narrator but is quickly jostled into seeing that the natural event is indifferent to her, and that is the point. Please send your responses on the site's Contact page. Thank you!