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

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☆☆☆☆☆

Joseph Krumgold（约瑟夫·葛鲁姆哥德） 著

出版社： HarperCollins US

ISBN：9780064401432

商品编码：19004847

包装：平装

出版时间：1984-04-04

用纸：胶版纸

页数：256

正文语种：英文

商品尺寸：19.3x12.95x1.27cm

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

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儿童故事书

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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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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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获奖作品

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跟小朋友一起读

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阅读的重要性是不言而喻的，但对于孩子来说，阅读又有一定难度。如何能让天性好动的孩子坐下来专心阅读呢？ 首先是要树立对书的尊重和亲近。 听书也是一个人的阅读史中很重要的一页。固然，很多知识是可以从电视、从交谈、从观察、从生活中的各种渠道获得，但就深度来说，没有任何一种形式能够代替阅读。读书的速度是可快可慢的，书的内容也可以自由挑选，这比其他吸收知识的形式多了许多思考的空间，主动性更强。读的时候还可以提问、讲解，还可以有目的地查阅，这样使得一段文字的扩展性非常大。也许它只是一个引子，由它引发的探讨和追问，最后可能把人带到完全不能想象的地方。 　　培养孩子对书的兴趣，家长本人就应该有对书的热爱，一个本身就鄙视阅读、厌恶阅读的人，很难想象他的家里会有阅读的氛围。不爱书的人，他无论怎么威逼利诱，努力让孩子看书，都带有强烈的功利目的——为了考试得高分，为了写作文有词儿，为了谈话有炫耀的资本。没有真正体验到阅读的乐趣，就不可能爱上阅读，即使孩子勉强读了，也不可能保持长久的兴趣。至于阅读中的积极思考，那更是谁也强迫不了的。发自内心喜欢阅读，和被迫坐在书桌前阅读，效果差别很大。 　　如何让孩子发自内心地喜欢阅读呢？听书就是必要的一步。 　　在孩子的识字量还很小，理解力也很有限的时候，让他读书肯定读不进去。他的注意力大部分都放在识字上，没读几个字，情绪还没有进入到内容中，就已经累了，怎么可能很有兴趣地读呢？因此过早强迫孩子读书，只能把他的胃口搞坏，看到书就烦。 　　听书却可以毫不费力地让他了解书中的世界。在一些比较简单的地方，让他自己读一部分，他会很有成就感。 　　而且讲书的过程，实际上也是一个传授阅读方法的过程。你可以把有关的背景知识穿插进去，也可以提出一些疑问让孩子思考，还可以边读书边和孩子讨论；这些实际上都是很重要的学习方法，孩子耳濡目染慢慢会有所领悟。

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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》。