...And Now Miguel 牧童历险记 [平装] [8岁及以上] 下载 mobi epub pdf 电子书 2024

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内容简介

He wanted to be treated like a man, not a child.

Every summer the men of the Chavez family go on a long and difficult sheep drive to the mountains. All the men, that is, except for Miguel. All year long, twelve-year-old Miguel tries to prove that he, too, is up to the challenge'that he, too, is up to the challenge'that he, too is ready to take the sheep into his beloved Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

When his deeds go unnoticed, he prays to San Ysidro, the saint for farmers everywhere. And his prayer is answered . . . but with devastating consequences.

When you act like an adult but get treated like a child, what else can you do but keep your wishes secret and pray that they'll come true.

This is the story of a twelve-year-old Miguel Chavez, who yearns in his heart to go with the men of his family on a long and hard sheep drive to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains--until his prayer is finally answered, with a disturbing and dangerous exchange.

作者简介

Joseph Krumgold received the Newbery Medal for ...And Now Miguel. One of the few people to receive the medal twice, he was subsequently awarded it for his novel Onion John,also available in a Harper Trophy edition.

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精彩书评

"A memorable and deeply moving story of a family of New Mexican sheepherders, in which Miguel, neither child nor man, tells of his great longing to accompany men and sheep to summer pasture, and expresses his need to be recognized as a maturing individual."
-- BL.

精彩书摘

CHAPTER ONE
It was love at first sight and I was astonished that it should be happening to me because the first sight had nothing in the least alluring about it. The roads from airports to cities rarely do. I was like a man who bewilders his friends by becoming infatuated with a particularly unprepossessing woman-warts and a squint and a harelip. 'What on earth does he see in her?' I've often wondered myself. What did I see in that dreary road which was taking me to Paris?
This sudden incomprehensible love affair might have been a little less mysterious if I had arrived in France with gooseflesh anticipations of romantic garrets and dangerous liaisons in them, the Latin Quarter and champagne at five francs a bottle, and artists' studios-all the preposterous sentimental paraphernalia from absinthe to midinettes. But I had not included any of these notions in my meagre luggage, I had no preliminary yearnings towards the country. Rather the contrary. In Australia I had spent much of my time with a young woman who had visited France just before the war and had gone down with a bad attack of what someone called 'French flu'. She babbled so fervently and persistently about France and Paris that she infected me with a perverse loathing for both.
The fact nonetheless inexplicably remains. A hundred yards from the airport we passed a café ('Le Looping', with the two o's aerobatically askew to make the point clear) and puppy love overwhelmed me-puppy love from which this old dog has not yet shaken himself free. 'Le Looping' and the handful of unremarkable customers sipping their drinks on the terrace instantaneously bewitched me.
I knew, with no rational justification, that I was in a country which for me was unlike any other country. It was as though some indigenous evangelist had caused me to be 'born again'.
One life abruptly ended and another began. There and then I shed my twenty-five years. To this day, in my own head and heart I am twenty-five years younger than the miserable reality.
The passengers in the airport bus were a drab lot. It was only eighteen months since the war had ended. There had not been much time to spruce up. In my besotted state, they seemed to me as fabulous as troubadours. The houses along the road were dismal little pavilions badly in need of a coat of paint. I gaped at them as if each one were the Chateau de Versailles. And in the distance the Eiffel Tower looked so impossibly like itself as depicted on a thousand postcards and a thousand amateur paintings that the sense of unreality which I had been feeling deepened still further.
What had brought me to Paris was my eagerness to visit a writer I had admired since my school days. He and his wife were to become two of my closest friends. We saw a great deal of each other in the years ahead-in Paris, in the South of France, in the Loire Valley. Of all the countless occasions on which we laughed together, argued, drank wine, loafed on a Mediterranean beach, listened to music, none was as sheerly magical as that first evening in Paris.
Our relationship took shape from the very beginning. We were already friends by the time we left their studio and strolled together down the Boulevard de Montparnasse. For some reason, twilight in Parts, then at least, was not like twilight in any other city. It enveloped you in a wonderful blue and golden luminosity and it had its own special unidentifiable perfume. That one-and-only twilight dreamily descending on us was so unlike anything I had known that I had my first vague glimpse of a mystery which was to become more and more apparent as time went by: Parts was the city of the unexpected. You always felt as though something extraordinary were about to happen. Sometimes it did, sometimes not; but the expectation never diminished. One went on waiting.
Twilight aside, most things were in short supply in 1947. Fortunately, the writer had been familiar with Paris for thirty years or more. He was already on the right sort of terms with the proprietor of an unassuming restaurant in one of the side streets. So we were served with a mixture of raw vegetables, a sorrel omelette (I can still recall the metallic taste of that sorrel) and, thanks to the proprietor's peasant brother, some wild duck. The wine was a muscular red with a powerful rasp to it but (a symptom of French flu?) I thought I had never drunk anything so delicious. It was served in cups as if we were in the prohibition speakeasy era because otherwise less privileged customers would have been clamouring for some and there wasn't any too much to be had.
Afterwards we walked back along the boulevard towards the studio. We stopped midway for a glass of brandy at the D?me. Tourists had not yet ventured to return to Paris. The other customers on the terrace were all French, completely nondescript but fascinating because they were French. There were practically no cars on the roads. Those there were either had great charcoal-burning furnaces fixed to the back or carried dirigible-like bags of gas on their roofs. Every so often a fiacre went clip-clopping past. The air was almost startling pure. The stars were sharply visible in a translucent sky. I turned to the man at the next table and asked him for a light-speaking French for the first time in my life. I managed to make three ludicrous grammatical blunders in the course of that one short sentence. If he was amused by my linguistic ineptitude he was too polite to show it. La politesse francaise-that still existed, too.

前言/序言

...And Now Miguel 牧童历险记 [平装] [8岁及以上] 下载 mobi epub pdf txt 电子书 格式

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获奖作品，给儿子囤的，搞活动买价格很便宜。

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很好的原版书，很适合初中孩子阅读，

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　　莫熙丢下两串钱出来，掂了掂手中的墨，满意地一笑，雇了一辆驴车，往城门去了。

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大奖小说。乐高的经典书，有很多图例是需要专门的系类才能搭建。《乐高全书:乐高的故事+乐高迷你人仔(套装共2册)》内容简介：乐高积木已经走过50多年了，但他依然年轻。为什么乐高积木能不断的激发全世界的小孩子和大人们的创造灵感。它每天都是个新玩具。乐高积木的叠加方式是无穷无尽的，只需要仅仅六块同颜色的乐高积木就能搭建出不止九亿一千五百万个造型。所以乐高玩法师永无止境的。乐高积木不仅仅只是个玩具，它还有培养了合作与社交技能的能力。如果你把不同国籍的孩子召集在一起，他们不懂彼此的语言，只要给他们乐高积木，他们就会自然而然的一起玩起来。乐高积木是世界通用的好玩儿的玩具！所有这些都会在《乐高的故事》里一一为你展现……什么样的人偶玩具能让无数人为之疯狂？50年经久不衰的玩具公司，制作出了风靡全球30年的木头人仔，它究竟有什么神奇之处？长得多高才能创造历史？那些耳熟能详的经典套系：乐高城市、海盗船长、星球大战、哈利•波特、NBA、机械战士……囊括了时尚与流行、传统与经典的所有精华的玩具——乐高，第一次为中国乐高迷呈现的完成套系典藏目录。将所有已出的套装人物一一列举并阐释历史、讲述故事。

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很喜欢的一本书很喜欢的一本书

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原版就是给力，印刷清晰，插图精美，拿在手里就是享受。

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司马迁有言：“屈原放逐，乃赋《离骚》。”欧阳修亦曰：“诗必穷而后工。”故盛世之巨公，其诗歌往往不及衰世之孤臣逐客。诗文之工，出于穷巷憔悴专一之士为多，虽庙堂卿相，亦难于争胜。亦有人谓此说未必盎然，且举晚清达官多工诗为证，如翁同稣、张之洞、张荫桓、樊增祥等。但若个人遭际有穷达，则其穷时之诗必胜于达时。如翁同稣、张荫桓，放逐后之诗胜于在朝时，兹专述张荫桓之《荷戈集》。

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