Rascal (Puffin Modern Classics)
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Rascal is only a baby when young Sterling brings him home. He and the mischievous raccoon are best friends for a perfect year of adventure?until the spring day when everything suddenly changes.
A Newbery Honor Book
a porcupine!” I didn’t want to kill the intruder. Using a long stick, I nudged him gently toward a small tree up which he scrambled until he looked like a hawk’s nest in the highest crotch. Then I went to examine the damage to our stores. It was our salt he had craved. He had ripped the salt box wide open and eaten enough to make him thirsty for the next six months. He wouldn’t stay up that tree very long, I concluded. He would have to come down and go to the river for a drink. Rascal and I lay
afternoon in May, Wowser and I started up First Street toward Crescent Drive where a semicircle of late Victorian houses enjoyed a hilltop view. Northward lay miles of meadows, groves of trees, a winding stream, and the best duck and muskrat marsh in Rock County. As we turned down a country lane past Bardeen’s orchard and vineyard, the signature of spring was everywhere: violets and anemones in the grass; the apple trees in promising bud along the bough. Ahead lay some of the most productive
aware as his master that this was the great day. His whinny could be heard at a considerable distance by interested mares, and he frisked about his pasture, kicking up his heels and tossing his head. Some race horses have a beloved dog or cat for a companion. Donnybrook had developed a strong affection for Rascal. Whenever my raccoon climbed one of the posts of the neat white fence around the paddock, the black stallion immediately became gentle, changing his shrill whinny to a soft whicker.
roadster, and streaking off after the stallion and his master. Mike Conway had watched the impatient and impetuous Gabriel Thurman crank his Ford on many occasions. He knew that Thurman always took reckless chances in three departments. He placed the gas and also the spark lever much too low. When aggravated he always jerked the choke wire (which emerged at the left of the crank), thus flooding his carburetor. Mike was no mechanic, but he had often used his stop watch on Thurman’s futile
I’ll be a doctor.” “Oh no, Sterling. You couldn’t be a doctor—you’re too tenderhearted. I helped Dr. MacChesney once—when he . . .” I knew she was remembering the crushed arm of a hired man who had caught his hand in the ensilage cutter. The arm had been amputated on this kitchen table; and Aunt Lillie had administered the chloroform. “No, perhaps I couldn’t be a doctor.” “I think I know what your mother would have wished,” Aunt Lillie said. And she looked so much like my mother as she said