Nesbit The Railway Children

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-4553-7199-0
Verlag: Seltzer Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 482 Seiten

Novel for children. According to Wikipedia: 'Edith Nesbit (married name Edith Bland; 15 August 1858 - 4 May 1924) was an English author and poet whose children's works were published under the name of E. Nesbit. She wrote or collaborated on over 60 books of fiction for children, several of which have been adapted for film and television. She was also a political activist and co-founded the Fabian Society, a precursor to the modern Labour Party.... Nesbit published approximately 40 books for children, both novels and collections of stories. Collaborating with others, she published almost as many more. According to her biographer Julia Briggs, Nesbit was 'the first modern writer for children': '(Nesbit) helped to reverse the great tradition of children's literature inaugurated by [Lewis] Carroll, [George] MacDonald and Kenneth Grahame, in turning away from their secondary worlds to the tough truths to be won from encounters with things-as-they-are, previously the province of adult novels.' Briggs also credits Nesbit with having invented the children's adventure story. Among Nesbit's best-known books are The Story of the Treasure Seekers (1898) and The Wouldbegoods (1899), which both recount stories about the Bastables, a middle class family that has fallen on relatively hard times. Her children's writing also included numerous plays and collections of verse. She created an innovative body of work that combined realistic, contemporary children in real-world settings with magical objects and adventures and sometimes travel to fantastic worlds.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Nesbit, Edith

Leseproben

Chapter VIII. The amateur firemen.
   "That's a likely little brooch you've got on, Miss," said Perks the Porter; "I don't know as ever I see a thing more like a buttercup without it WAS a buttercup."   "Yes," said Bobbie, glad and flushed by this approval.  "I always thought it was more like a buttercup almost than even a real one-- and I NEVER thought it would come to be mine, my very own--and then Mother gave it to me for my birthday."   "Oh, have you had a birthday?" said Perks; and he seemed quite surprised, as though a birthday were a thing only granted to a favoured few.   "Yes," said Bobbie; "when's your birthday, Mr. Perks?"  The children were taking tea with Mr. Perks in the Porters' room among the lamps and the railway almanacs.  They had brought their own cups and some jam turnovers.  Mr. Perks made tea in a beer can, as usual, and everyone felt very happy and confidential.   "My birthday?" said Perks, tipping some more dark brown tea out of the can into Peter's cup.  "I give up keeping of my birthday afore you was born."   "But you must have been born SOMETIME, you know," said Phyllis, thoughtfully, "even if it was twenty years ago--or thirty or sixty or seventy."   "Not so long as that, Missie," Perks grinned as he answered.  "If you really want to know, it was thirty-two years ago, come the fifteenth of this month."   "Then why don't you keep it?" asked Phyllis.   "I've got something else to keep besides birthdays," said Perks, briefly.   "Oh!  What?" asked Phyllis, eagerly.  "Not secrets?"   "No," said Perks, "the kids and the Missus."   It was this talk that set the children thinking, and, presently, talking.  Perks was, on the whole, the dearest friend they had made. Not so grand as the Station Master, but more approachable--less powerful than the old gentleman, but more confidential.   "It seems horrid that nobody keeps his birthday," said Bobbie. "Couldn't WE do something?"   "Let's go up to the Canal bridge and talk it over," said Peter.  "I got a new gut line from the postman this morning.  He gave it me for a bunch of roses that I gave him for his sweetheart.  She's ill."   "Then I do think you might have given her the roses for nothing," said Bobbie, indignantly.   "Nyang, nyang!" said Peter, disagreeably, and put his hands in his pockets.   "He did, of course," said Phyllis, in haste; "directly we heard she was ill we got the roses ready and waited by the gate.  It was when you were making the brekker-toast.  And when he'd said 'Thank you' for the roses so many times--much more than he need have--he pulled out the line and gave it to Peter.  It wasn't exchange.  It was the grateful heart."   "Oh, I BEG your pardon, Peter," said Bobbie, "I AM so sorry."   "Don't mention it," said Peter, grandly, "I knew you would be."   So then they all went up to the Canal bridge.  The idea was to fish from the bridge, but the line was not quite long enough.   "Never mind," said Bobbie.  "Let's just stay here and look at things.  Everything's so beautiful."   It was.  The sun was setting in red splendour over the grey and purple hills, and the canal lay smooth and shiny in the shadow--no ripple broke its surface.  It was like a grey satin ribbon between the dusky green silk of the meadows that were on each side of its banks.   "It's all right," said Peter, "but somehow I can always see how pretty things are much better when I've something to do.  Let's get down on to the towpath and fish from there."   Phyllis and Bobbie remembered how the boys on the canal-boats had thrown coal at them, and they said so.   "Oh, nonsense," said Peter.  "There aren't any boys here now.  If there were, I'd fight them."   Peter's sisters were kind enough not to remind him how he had NOT fought the boys when coal had last been thrown.  Instead they said, "All right, then," and cautiously climbed down the steep bank to the towing-path.  The line was carefully baited, and for half an hour they fished patiently and in vain.  Not a single nibble came to nourish hope in their hearts.   All eyes were intent on the sluggish waters that earnestly pretended they had never harboured a single minnow when a loud rough shout made them start.   "Hi!" said the shout, in most disagreeable tones, "get out of that, can't you?"   An old white horse coming along the towing-path was within half a dozen yards of them.  They sprang to their feet and hastily climbed up the bank.   "We'll slip down again when they've gone by," said Bobbie.   But, alas, the barge, after the manner of barges, stopped under the bridge.   "She's going to anchor," said Peter; "just our luck!"   The barge did not anchor, because an anchor is not part of a canal- boat's furniture, but she was moored with ropes fore and aft--and the ropes were made fast to the palings and to crowbars driven into the ground.   "What you staring at?" growled the Bargee, crossly.   "We weren't staring," said Bobbie; "we wouldn't be so rude."   "Rude be blessed," said the man; "get along with you!"   "Get along yourself," said Peter.  He remembered what he had said about fighting boys, and, besides, he felt safe halfway up the bank. "We've as much right here as anyone else."   "Oh, 'AVE you, indeed!" said the man.  "We'll soon see about that." And he came across his deck and began to climb down the side of his barge.   "Oh, come away, Peter, come away!" said Bobbie and Phyllis, in agonised unison.   "Not me," said Peter, "but YOU'D better."   The girls climbed to the top of the bank and stood ready to bolt for home as soon as they saw their brother out of danger.  The way home lay all down hill.  They knew that they all ran well.  The Bargee did not look as if HE did.  He was red-faced, heavy, and beefy.   But as soon as his foot was on the towing-path the children saw that they had misjudged him.   He made one spring up the bank and caught Peter by the leg, dragged him down--set him on his feet with a shake--took him by the ear--and said sternly:--   "Now, then, what do you mean by it?  Don't you know these 'ere waters is preserved?  You ain't no right catching fish 'ere--not to say nothing of your precious cheek."   Peter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the Bargee's furious fingers tightening on his ear, the Bargee's crimson countenance close to his own, the Bargee's hot breath on his neck, he had the courage to speak the truth.   "I WASN'T catching fish," said Peter.   "That's not YOUR fault, I'll be bound," said the man, giving Peter's ear a twist--not a hard one--but still a twist.   Peter could not say that it was.  Bobbie and Phyllis had been holding on to the railings above and skipping with anxiety.  Now suddenly Bobbie slipped through the railings and rushed down the bank towards Peter, so impetuously that Phyllis, following more temperately, felt certain that her sister's descent would end in the waters of the canal.  And so it would have done if the Bargee hadn't let go of Peter's ear--and caught her in his jerseyed arm.   "Who are you a-shoving of?" he said, setting her on her feet.   "Oh," said Bobbie, breathless, "I'm not shoving anybody.  At least, not on purpose.  Please don't be cross with Peter.  Of course, if it's your canal, we're sorry and we won't any more.  But we didn't know it was yours."   "Go along with you," said the Bargee.   "Yes, we will; indeed we will," said Bobbie, earnestly; "but we do beg your pardon--and really we haven't caught a single fish.  I'd tell you directly if we had, honour bright I would."   She held out her hands and Phyllis turned out her little empty pocket to show that really they hadn't any fish concealed about them.   "Well," said the Bargee, more gently, "cut along, then, and don't you do it again, that's all."   The children hurried up the bank.   "Chuck us a coat, M'ria," shouted the man.  And a red-haired woman in a green plaid shawl came out from the cabin door with a baby in her arms and threw a coat to him.  He put it on, climbed the bank, and slouched...