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Zusatztext "No one but the author of The Wolves of Willoughby Chase could create such a melange of inventions, sustain such a pace, and give such vigor to the telling."-- The Horn Book Informationen zum Autor Joan Aiken, daughter of the American writer Conrad Aiken, was born in Rye, Sussex, England, and has written more than sixty books for children, including The Wolves of Willoughby Chase . Klappentext Young Arabel's life is changed forever when her father, a taxi driver, brings home an injured bird he finds in the street. This wacky raven eats everything in sight, answers the telephone by squawking "Nevermore!" and causes chaos wherever he goes--but Arabel loves her new feathered friend, whom she names Mortimer. This is the first volume of Arabel and Mortimer's adventures, brightened with hilarious illustrations by Quentin Blake. Leseprobe Arabel’s Raven On a stormy night in March, not long ago, a respectable taxi driver named Ebenezer Jones found himself driving home, very late, through the somewhat wild and sinister district of London known as Rumbury Town. Mr. Jones had left Rumbury Tube Station behind him, and was passing the long, desolate piece of land called Rumbury Waste, when, in the street not far ahead, he observed a large, dark, upright object. It was rather smaller than a coal scuttle, but bigger than a quart cider bottle, and it was moving slowly from one side of the street to the other. Mr. Jones had approached to within about twenty yards of this object when a motorcycle with two riders shot by him, going at a reckless pace and cutting in very close. Mr. Jones braked sharply, looking in his rearview mirror. When he looked forward again he saw that the motorcycle must have struck the upright object in passing, for it was now lying on its side, just ahead of his front wheels. He brought his taxi to a halt. “Not but what I daresay I’m being foolish,” he thought. “There’s plenty in this part of town that’s best left alone. But you can’t see something like that happen without stopping to have a look.” He got out of his cab. What he found in the road was a large black bird, almost two feet long, with a hairy fringe around its beak. At first he thought it was dead. At his approach, however, it slightly opened one eye, then shut it again. “Poor thing; it’s probably stunned,” thought Mr. Jones. His horoscope in the Hackney Drivers’ Herald that morning had said: “Due to your skill a life will be saved today.” Mr. Jones had been worrying slightly, as he drove homeward, because up till now he had not, so far as he knew, saved any lives that day, except by avoiding pedestrians however recklessly they walked into the road without looking. “This’ll be the life I’m due to save,” he thought, “must be, for it’s five to midnight now.” And he went back to his cab for the bottle of brandy and teaspoon he always carried in the toolbox in case lady passengers turned faint. It is not so easy as you might believe to give brandy to a large bird lying unconscious in thestreet. After five minutes there was a good deal of brandy on the cobblestones, and some up Mr. Jones’s sleeve, and some in his shoes, but he could not be sure that any had actually gone down the bird’s throat. The difficulty was that he needed at least three hands: one to hold the bottle, and one to hold the spoon, and one to hold the bird’s beak open. If he prized open the beak with the handle of the teaspoon, it was sure to shut again before he had time to reverse the spoon and tip in some brandy. A hand fell on his shoulder. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” inquired one of two policemen (they always traveled in pairs through Rumbury Town) who had left their van and were standing over him...
