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Zusatztext “Heart-stopping adventure and heart-wrenching human elements…. This is a classic well worth its Pulitzer Prize. Earthy dialect and homespun wisdom season the story, giving it a unique and unforgettable flavor, and N.C. Wyeth's warm, soft illustrations capture an era of rough subsistence and sweet survival.” Informationen zum Autor Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (1896-1953) lived for twenty-five years in Cross Creek, Florida, the area that is the setting for The Yearling, which was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1939. She is the author of several earlier novels as well as a memoir, Cross Creek, which inspired the acclaimed motion picture of the same name. N.C. Wyeth (1882-1945) began his artistic career as a young adult. Born in Needham, Massachusetts, Wyeth traveled the American West extensively and drew what he saw. His prolific career includes three thousand works and more than one hundred book illustrations, including those for a majority of the Scribner Illustrated Classics series. Klappentext A young boy living in the Florida backwoods is forced to decide the fate of a fawn he has lovingly raised as a pet. Leseprobe Yearling Chapter I A COLUMN of smoke rose thin and straight from the cabin chimney. The smoke was blue where it left the red of the clay. It trailed into the blue of the April sky and was no longer blue but gray. The boy Jody watched it, speculating. The fire on the kitchen hearth was dying down. His mother was hanging up pots and pans after the noon dinner. The day was Friday. She would sweep the floor with a broom of ti-ti and after that, if he were lucky, she would scrub it with the corn shucks scrub. If she scrubbed the floor she would not miss him until he had reached the Glen. He stood a minute, balancing the hoe on his shoulder. The clearing itself was pleasant if the unweeded rows of young shafts of corn were not before him. The wild bees had found the chinaberry tree by the front gate. They burrowed into the fragile clusters of lavender bloom as greedily as though there were no other flowers in the scrub; as though they had forgotten the yellow jessamine of March; the sweet bay and the magnolias ahead of them in May. It occurred to him that he might follow the swift line of flight of the black and gold bodies, and so find a bee-tree, full of amber honey. The winter’s cane syrup was gone and most of the jellies. Finding a bee-tree was nobler work than hoeing, and the corn could wait another day. The afternoon was alive with a soft stirring. It bored into him as the bees bored into the chinaberry blossoms, so that he must be gone across the clearing, through the pines and down the road to the running branch. The bee-tree might be near the water. He stood his hoe against the split-rail fence. He walked down the cornfield until he was out of sight of the cabin. He swung himself over the fence on his two hands. Old Julia the hound had followed his father in the wagon to Grahamsville, but Rip the bull-dog and Perk the new feice saw the form clear the fence and ran toward him. Rip barked deeply but the voice of the small mongrel was high and shrill. They wagged deprecatory short tails when they recognized him. He sent them back to the yard. They watched after him indifferently. They were a sorry pair, he thought, good for nothing but the chase, the catch and the kill. They had no interest in him except when he brought them their plates of table scraps night and morning. Old Julia was a gentle thing with humans, but her worn-toothed devotion was only for his father, Penny Baxter. Jody had tried to make up to Julia, but she would have none of him. “You was pups together,” his father told him, “ten year gone, when you was two year old and her a baby. You hurted the leetle thing, not meanin...
