英文原版 Rifles for Watie 给威蒂的枪 1958纽伯瑞金奖 蓝思910L 8-12年级 英文版 进口英语原版书籍
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库存18件
广东广州
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作者Keith, Harold
出版社HarperTeen
ISBN9780064470308
出版时间1987-10
装帧平装
定价38元
货号YB-2488
上书时间2024-03-05
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书名：Rifles for Watie 给威蒂的枪 难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数910L 作者：Harold Keith 出版社名称：HarperTeen 出版时间：1987 语种：英文 ISBN：9780064470308 商品尺寸：10.6 x 1.8 x 17.8 cm 包装：平装 页数：352 Rifles for Watie《给威蒂的枪》是一部引人入胜、情节丰富的小说，讲述的是美国一个年轻的士兵在内战期间艰苦搏斗并幸存下来的动人故事。本书曾获得美国纽伯瑞金奖。 Winner of the Newbery Medal * An ALA Notable Children’s Book * Winner of the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award A captivating and richly detailed novel about one young soldier who saw the Civil War from both sides and lived to tell the tale. Earnest, plain-spoken sixteen-year-old Jeff Bussey has finally gotten his father’s consent to join the Union volunteers. It’s 1861 in Linn County, Kansas, and Jeff is eager to fight for the North before the war is over, which he’s sure will be soon. But weeks turn to months, the marches through fields and woods prove endless, hunger and exhaustion seem to take up permanent residence in Jeff’s bones, and he learns what it really means to fight in battle—and to lose friends. When he finds himself among enemy troops, he’ll have to put his life on the line to advance the Union cause. Thoroughly researched and based on firsthand accounts,Rifles for Watie “should hold a place with the best Civil War fiction for young people” (The Horn Book). 杰夫，一个十六岁的美国男孩，在内战期间，偷偷离家参了军，可是军队的艰苦生活和战争的残酷血腥都使他感到无法适应。后来，他被派入敌军阵营里潜伏，在那里他认识了领导切罗基族人进行战斗的“站着的威蒂”，一个传奇般的勇士，在与他同甘共苦的过程中，杰夫对是否应该完成自己的任务，越来越感到迷茫…… Jeff Bussey walked briskly up the rutted wagon road toward Fort Leavenworth on his way to join the Union volunteers. It was 1861 in Linn County, Kansas, and Jeff was elated at the prospect of fighting for the North at last. In the Indian country south of Kansas there was dread in the air; and the name, Stand Watie, was on every tongue. A hero to the rebel, a devil to the Union man, Stand Watie led the Cherokee Indian Na-tion fearlessly and successfully on savage raids behind the Union lines. Jeff came to know the Watie men only too well. He was probably the only soldier in the West to see the Civil War from both sides and live to tell about it. Amid the roar of cannon and the swish of flying grape, Jeff learned what it meant to fight in battle. He learned how it felt never to have enough to eat, to forage for his food or starve. He saw the green fields of Kansas and Okla-homa laid waste by Watie’s raiding parties, homes gutted, precious corn deliberately uprooted. He marched endlessly across parched, hot land, through mud and slash-ing rain, always hungry, always dirty and dog-tired. And, Jeff, plain-spoken and honest, made friends and enemies. The friends were strong men like Noah Babbitt, the itinerant printer who once walked from Topeka to Galveston to see the magnolias in bloom; boys like Jimmy Lear, too young to carry a gun but old enough to give up his life at Cane Hill; ugly, big-eared Heifer, who made the best sourdough biscuits in the Choctaw country; and beautiful Lucy Washbourne, rebel to the marrow and proud of it. The enemies were men of an-other breed—hard-bitten Captain Clardy for one, a cruel officer with hatred for Jeff in his eyes and a dark secret on his soul. This is a rich and sweeping novel-rich in its panorama of history; in its details so clear that the reader never doubts for a moment that he is there; in its dozens of different people, each one fully realized and wholly recognizable. It is a story of a lesser—known part of the Civil War, the Western campaign, a part different in its issues and its problems, and fought with a different savagery. Inexorably it moves to a dramat-ic climax, evoking a brilliant picture of a war and the men of both sides who fought in it. Harold Keith grew up near the Cherokee country he describes inRifles for Watie.A native Oklahoman, he was educated at Northwestern State Teachers College at Alva and at the University of Oklahoma. Since 1930, the author has been sports publicity director at the University of Oklahoma. He is married and has a son and daughter. The mules strained forward strongly, hoofs stomping, harness jingling. The iron blade of the plow sang joyously as it ripped up the moist, black Kansas earth with a soft, crunching sound, turning it over in long, smooth, root-veined rectangles. Leather lines tied together over his left shoulder and under his right arm, Jeff trudged along behind the plow, watching the fresh dirt cascade off the blade and remembering. Remembering the terrible Kansas drouth of the year before when it hadn’t rained for sixteen long months. The ground had broken open in great cracks, springs and wells went dry, and no green plant would grow except the curly buffalo grass which never failed. That drouth had been hard on everybody. Jeff clutched the wooden plow handles and thought about it. He recalled how starved he had been for wheat bread, and how his longing for it grew so acute that on Sundays he found excuse to visit neighbor after neighbor in hopes of being invited to share a pan of hot biscuits, only to discover that they, too, took their corn bread three times a day. A drop of perspiration trickled down his tan, dusty face. It was a pleasant face with a wide, generous mouth, a deep dimple in the chin, and quick brown eyes that crinkled with good humor. The sweat droplets ran uncomfortably into the corner of his mouth, tasting salty and warm. But now the drouth was broken. After plenty of snow and rain, the new land was blooming again. Even his mother was learning to accept Kansas. Edith Bussey had lived all her life in Kentucky, with its gently rolling hills, its seas of bluegrass, its stone fences festooned with honeysuckle, and its stately homes with their tall white columns towering into the drowsy air. No wonder she found the new Kansas country hard to like. She had called Kansas an erratic land. Jeff remembered she had said it was like a child, happy and laughing one minute, hateful and contrary the next. A land famous for its cyclones, blizzards, grasshoppers, mortgages, and its violently opposed political cliques. Jeff ducked his head and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his homespun shirt, never taking his eyes off the mules. He would never forget the scores of covered wagons he had seen, during the drouth last fall, on the Marais des Cygnes road that went past his father’s farm as one-third of the hundred thousand people living in Kansas Territory gave up, abandoning their claims and heading back to their wives’ folks. Curious, he had leaned on his father’s corral fence of peeled cottonwood logs and asked some of them where they were going. 1234567
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