...And Now Miguel 牧童历险记 [平装] [8岁及以上] 下载 mobi epub pdf 电子书 2025

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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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《日斯巴弥亚城观斗牛歌》描写斗牛场面，绘声绘色，犹如电视现场直播，真是妙笔，结尾引《孟子》以羊易牛衅钟之仁心仁术，反衬出斗牛杀牛以博一乐之残忍风尚。以上诸诗，使事用典中西合璧，且将地球、电灯、机器、黑奴等西方新名词，嵌入中国古典诗歌中，如盐入水，溶化无痕。此种境界，应为张荫桓独辟首创，才是“诗界哥伦布”。（“诗界哥伦布”，乃丘逢甲赞黄遵宪语也）。

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在爸妈wang看到活动300-150购入，很好的英文绘本

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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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等孩子稍微大点才可以和孩子看的书

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很好的书，留给孩子以后看

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纽伯瑞奖的童书，囤书。有什么事能像阅读一样做起来简单却成效显著呢？　　读书给孩子听就像和孩子说话，同样基于以下的理由：树立孩子的信心，带来欢笑，拉近彼此的距离；告诉孩子信息或向孩子解释问题，引发孩子的好奇心，激励孩子。在朗读中，我们还可以：　　·在孩子的脑海中，将阅读与愉悦联系在一起。　　·创造背景知识。　　·建立词汇基础。　　·树立一个阅读的典范。　　让我们看看终身阅读者是如何培养出来的。许多教育界人士忽略了两项有关阅读的基本“人生事实”。少了这两个定律的相互作用，教育改革的成效将微乎其微。　　阅读定律一：人类是喜欢享乐的。　　阅读定律二：阅读是积累渐进的技能。　　现在我们来研究定律一：人类是喜欢享乐的。对于能给自己带来快乐的事，人们会自愿地反复去做。我们去自己喜欢的餐厅，点自己喜欢的食物，听自己喜欢的音乐电台，探望自己喜欢的亲戚。反之，对于自己讨厌的食物、音乐及亲戚，我们则避之唯恐不及。这不仅是一条定律，更是一个心理上的事实。当我们的感官将电子与化学信息发送到大脑中的“有趣区”或“无趣区”时，人就会作出正面或负面的反应。　　美国自然历史博物馆一位杰出的动物心理学家，将所有行为分成两种简单的反应：接近与回避。我们接近带来快乐的事，回避带来痛苦或不愉快的事。　　愉快就像胶水一样，能粘住我们的注意力，但只朝喜欢的方向吸引。当欣赏一部电影时，我们就会沉浸其中；不再喜欢时，这种投入的情绪即告中断。这种情况几乎适用于所有我们愿意去做的事。每当我们给孩子朗读时，就会发送一个“愉悦”信息到孩子的脑中，甚至将之称为“广告”亦不为过，因为朗读让孩子把书本、印刷品与愉悦画上等号。然而，很多时候，“不愉快”却和“阅读”

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很有意思的书，适合英语程度好的9-12岁男孩子看。

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获奖小说果然不错，词汇量扩展很大，孩子和我一起看，真的是爱不释手。

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