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77 pages

English

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Edith Nesbit (1858 – 1924) was a prolific and popular writer of children's literature, publishing more than 60 such books under the name E. Nesbit. She was also a political activist and co-founded the Fabian Society, which had a significant influence on the Labour Party and British politics in general. “Nine Unlikely Tales” is a 1901 collection of short stories for children, including “The Cockatoucanor Great Aunt Willoughby”, “The Blue Mountain”, “The Prince, Two Mice, and Some Kitchen Maids”, and others. These charming tales would make for perfect bedtime reading or as an introduction to the wonderful world of short stories for young readers. Illustrated by H. R. Millar and Claude A. Shepperson. Other notable works by this author include: “The Prophet's Mantle” (1885), “Something Wrong” (1886), and “The Marden Mystery” (1896). Many vintage books such as this are becoming increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new biography of the author.

Sujets

Fairy Tales

Young Adult Fiction

Folklore

Informations

Publié par	Read Books Ltd.
Date de parution	17 juin 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528787512
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

NINE UNLIKELY TALES
By
E. NESBIT
Illustrated by
H. R. MILLAR
And
CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON

First published in 1901

This edition published by Read Books Ltd. Copyright © 2019 Read Books Ltd. This book is copyright and may not be
reproduced or copied in any way without
the express permission of the publisher in writing
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents
E. Nesbit
THE COCKATOUCANOR GREAT AUN T WILLOUGHBY
THE B LUE MOUNTAIN
THE PRINCE, TWO MICE, AND SOME K ITCHEN-MAIDS
MELISANDEOR, LONG AND SH ORT DIVISION
FORTUNAT US REX & CO.
THE SUMS THA T CAME RIGHT
THE TOWN IN THE LIBRARY IN THE TOWN IN THE LIBRARY
THE P LUSH USURPER

Illustrations
Matilda swung her leg s miserably.
He waved away the eightpence.
The top part of pridmore turned into painted iro n and glass.
The princess was like a yard and a half of white tape.
The king sent his army, and the enemy w ere crushed.
The king had turned into a vill a residence.
Four men came wheeling a great red thing on a barrow.
They bounced through the suburbs.
The seal was very kind and convenient.
Suddenly, out of nothing and nowhere, appeared a large, ster n housemaid.
A long, pointed thing came slowly up out of the sand.
It is difficult to play when any one is watching you, especially a policeman.
The people of antioch were always in a hurry and gene rally angry.
Off they all went, king, court, and men-at-arms.
Tony was stamped on by the great seal, who was very fierce.
The Giant- little-girl.
Tony among the rocks in the bread-and -milk basin.
“Everything you say will be used against you,” said the public persecutor.
He was growing, growi ng, growing.
Malevola’s dress was not at all the thing for a christening.
There stood up a prince and a princess.
Trains of princes bringing nasty things in bottles and round w ooden boxes.
The princess grew so big that she had to go and sit on the common.
The princess in one scale and her hair i n the other.
“Welcom e! Welcome!”
“Poor benighted, oppressed people, follow me!”

E. Nesbit
Edith Nesbit was born in Kennington, Surrey in 1858. Her family moved around constantly during her youth, living variously in Brighton, Buckinghamshire, France, Spain and Germany, before settling for three years in Halstead in north-west Kent, a location which later inspired her well-known novel, The Railway Children. In 1880, Nesbit married Hubert Bland, and her writing talents – which had been in evidence during her teens – were quickly needed to bring in e xtra money.
Over the course of her life, Nesbit would go on to publish approximately 40 books for children, including novels, collections of stories and picture books. Among her best-known works are The Story of the Treasure Seekers (1898), The Wouldbegoods (1899) and The Railway Children (1906). Nesbit is regarded by many critics as the first truly 'modern' children's writer, in that she replaced the fantastical worlds utilised by authors such as Lewis Carroll with real-life settings marked by the occasional intrusion of magic. In this, Nesbit is seen as a precursor to writers such as J. K. Rowling and C. S. Lewis. Nesbit was also a lifelong socialist; in 1884 she was among the founding members of the influential Fabian Society. For much of her adult life she was an active lecturer and prolific writer on socialism.
Having suffered from lung cancer for some years, Nesbit died in 1924 at New Romney, Ke nt, aged 65.

THE COCKATOUCAN OR GREAT AUNT WILLOUGHBY
MATILDA’S ears were red and shiny. So were her cheeks. Her hands were red too. This was because Pridmore had washed her. It was not the usual washing, which makes you clean and comfortable, but the “thorough good wash,” which makes you burn and smart till you wish you could be like the poor little savages who do not know anything, and run about bare in the sun, and only go into the water when t hey are hot.
Matilda wished she could have been born in a savage tribe instead of at Brixton.
“Little savages,” she said, “don’t have their ears washed thoroughly, and they don’t have new dresses that are prickly in the insides round their arms, and cut them round the neck. Do they , Pridmore?”
But Pridmore only said, “Stuff and nonsense,” and then she said, “don’t wriggle so, child, for good ness’ sake.”
Pridmore was Matilda’s nursemaid. Matilda sometimes found her trying. Matilda was quite right in believing that savage children do not wear frocks that hurt. It is also true that savage children are not over-washed, over-brushed, over-combed, gloved, booted, and hatted and taken in an omnibus to Streatham to see their Great-aunt Willoughby. This was intended to be Matilda’s fate. Her mother had arranged it. Pridmore had prepared her for it. Matilda, knowing resistance to be vain, had subm itted to it.
But Destiny had not been consulted, and Destiny had plans of its own for Matilda.
When the last button of Matilda’s boots had been fastened (the button-hook always had a nasty temper, especially when it was hurried, and that day it bit a little piece of Matilda’s leg quite spitefully) the wretched child was taken downstairs and put on a chair in the hall to wait while Pridmore popped her ow n things on.
“I shan’t be a minute,” sa id Pridmore.
Mat ilda knew better. She seated herself to wait, and swung her legs miserably. She had been to her Great-aunt Willoughby’s before, and she knew exactly what to expect. She would be asked about her lessons, and how many marks she had, and whether she had been a good girl. I can’t think why grown-up people don’t see how impertinent these questions are. Suppose you were to answer, “I’m top of my class, Auntie, thank you, and I’m very good. And now let’s have a little talk about you. Aunt, dear, how much money have you got, and have you been scolding the servants again, or have you tried to be good and patient as a properly brought up aunt should be , eh, dear?”
Try this method with one of your aunts next time she begins asking you questions, and write and tell me wh at she says.
Matilda knew exactly what the Aunt Willoughby’s questions would be, and she knew how, when they were answered, her aunt would give her a small biscuit with carraway seeds in it, and then tell her to go with Pridmore and have her hands and face w ashed again.
Then she would be sent to walk in the garden—the garden had a gritty path, and geraniums and cal ceolarias and lobelias in the beds. You might not pick anything. There would be minced veal at dinner, with three-cornered bits of toast round the dish, and a tapioca pudding. Then the long afternoon with a book, a bound volume of the “Potterer’s Saturday Night”—nasty small print—and all the stories about children who died young because they were too good for this world.
Matilda wriggled wretchedly. If she had been a little less uncomfortable she would have cried, but her new frock was too tight and prickly to let her forget it for a moment, ev en in tears.
When Pridmore came down at last, she said, “Fie, for shame! What a sulky face!”
And Matilda said , “I’m not.”

Matilda swung her leg s miserably.
“Oh, yes you are,” said Pridmore, “you know you are, you don’t appreciate your blessings.”
“I wish it was your Aunt Willoughby,” s aid Matilda.
“Nasty, spiteful little thing!” said Pridmore, and she shook Matilda. Then Matilda tried to slap Pridmore, and the two went down the steps not at all pleased with each other. They went down the dull road to the dull omni bus, and Matilda was cryi ng a little.
Now Pridmore was a very careful person, though cross, but even the most careful persons make mistakes sometimes—and she must have taken the wrong omnibus, or this story could never have happened, and where should we all have been then? This shows you that even mistakes are sometimes valuable, so do not be hard on grown-up people if they are wrong sometimes. You know after all, it hardly e ver happens.
It was a very bright green and gold omnibus, and inside the cushions were green and very soft. Matilda and her nursemaid had it all to themselves, and Matilda began to feel more comfortable, especially as she had wriggled till she had burst one of her shoulder-seams and got more room for herself insid e her frock.
So she said, “I’m sorry I was cross, P riddy dear.”
Pridmore said, “So you ought to be.” But she never said she was sorry for being cross. But you must not expect grown-up people to say that.
It was certainly the wrong omnibus because instead of jolting slowly along dusty streets, it went quickly and sm oothly down a green lane, with flowers in the hedges, and green trees overhead. Matilda was so delighted that she sat quite still, a very rare thing with her. Pridmore was reading a penny story called “The Vengeance of the Lady Constantia,” so she did not noti ce anything.
“I don’t care. I shan’t tell her,” said Matilda, “she’d stop the ’bus as lik ely as not.”
At last the ’bus stopped of its own accord. Pridmore put her story in her pocket and began to get out.
“Well, I never!” she said, and got out very quickly and ran round to where the horses were. They were white horses with green harness, and their tails were very long indeed.
“Hi, young man!” said Pridmore to the omnibus driver, “you’ve brought us to the wrong place. This isn’t Streatham Common, this isn’t.”
The driver was the most beautiful omnibus driver you ever saw, and his clothes were like him in beauty. He had white silk stockings and a ruffled silk shirt of white, and his coat and breeches were green and gold. So w