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Informationen zum Autor Marguerite Henry (1902–1997) was the beloved author of such classic horse stories as King of the Wind, Misty of Chincoteague, and Stormy, Misty’s Foal, and her work has won several Newbery Awards and Honors. Wesley Dennis was best known for his illustrations in collaboration with author Marguerite Henry. They published sixteen books together. Klappentext Based on an legend about fox hunting in the area around Mount Vernon, this classic tale pits a very wily fox against George Washington himself. This beloved story from Newbery Award-winning author Henry features the original text and illustrations with gorgeous new cover art.Cinnabar, the One O’Clock Fox Chapter 1 FOUR IS A JOLLY NICE NUMBER It was April in Virginia. The brooks and runs on George Washington’s estate were overflowing in their hurry to join the big Potomac. Pussy willows along the banks were swollen to plumpness. And everywhere, the woods and meadows were alive with cheeps and chirrings and little feet scampering. One morning just before the break of dawn, when the moon was still shining brightly, four little fox cubs were born in a den tucked away in a sassafras thicket. Cinnabar, their father, had been out all night, hunting. He wanted to bring a nice plump hen to his wife, because she liked nice plump hens. And if ever there was a time to please Vicky, as he called her, it was now. This very night. Cinnabar’s masklike face, with its slanted amber eyes, looked up at the great white face of the moon. But that is not what he saw. He saw instead the warm coziness of his own den. And there was Vicky, still busy at the nestbox weaving a mattress of grasses and reeds. He knew what that meant. It meant furry little foxes—any moment now. He bayed his happiness to the moon: “Yapp yurr. Yapp yur-rrr.” He disappeared into a tangle of honeysuckle and hauled out the fat hen that he had cached away an hour before. Then he pawed deeper into the tanglewood and gathered up four good-sized barn mice. He took them one at a time and placed them side by side neatly and securely underneath the hen’s wings. “My stars and garters!” he barked to himself. “It’s been a capital night for hunting!” Grabbing the hen’s neck in his mouth, he flung her over his shoulder and trotted off toward home. Cinnabar was a big, red, magnificent fellow. Courage and heart showed in the very look of him. A rough scar across his nose and a nick on one ear in no way marred his handsomeness. On the contrary, they gave him a gay and gallant air. They spoke of battles won—over eagles and buzzards and hawks and weasels. Cinnabar was, in truth, afraid of nothing. Neither of dark nor of storm; nor of hunters nor hounds. He was free and unfearing, the very spirit of the wilds. With a windblown movement he went gliding along, his brush of a tail stretched out full. His lively ears pricked to and fro, catching every sound of the night. Pine needles singing. Frogs playing their bassoons. Birds beginning to stir and twitter. It seemed to him that the morning was coming in with a peculiar gladness. Silently he left the big trees behind and trotted down a little avenue of hemlocks. Fast as he traveled, his imagination went faster still. He could almost hear Vicky’s cry of delight when she spied not only the plump hen, but the four good mice as well. “How she likes hens and mice!” he mused. “Better than grouse and grasshoppers. Better than anything . . . except me!” he chuckled, as he shifted his burden to the other shoulder. Chatting and laughing and happy in ...
