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The Classic Morpurgo Collection
Michael Morpurgo
Six best-loved novels by award-winning author of ‘War Horse’, brought together in this ebook collection.A perfect introduction to Michael Morpurgo’s enthralling storytelling for new readers and a classic collection for fans.‘Kaspar’:Kaspar the cat first came to the Savoy Hotel in a basket – Johnny Trott knows, because he was the one who carried him in. Johnny was a bellboy, you see, and he carried all of Countess Kandinsky's things to her room, including this very special cat!‘Born to Run’:When Patrick saves a litter of greyhound puppies from the canal, he convinces his parents to let him keep one. Patrick names his puppy Best Mate, and that’s what he becomes…Until one day Best Mate is kidnapped by a greyhound trainer. The trainer’s step-daughter loves the greyhound and renames him Bright Eyes. But what will happen when he can’t run any more?‘The Butterfly Lion’:When Bertie is a little boy, he rescues an orphaned white lion cub from the African veld. They are inseparable until Bertie is sent to boarding school far away in England and the lion is sold to a circus.Bertie swears that one day they will see one another again, but it is the butterfly lion which ensures that their friendship will never be forgotten.‘Alone on a wide, wide sea’:When six-year-old orphan Arthur Hobhouse was shipped to Australia after WWII he lost his sister, his country and everything he knew.Now he has built a special boat for his daughter Allie – a yacht designed to carry her to England, in search of his long-lost sister…‘Running Wild’:For Will and his mother, going to Indonesia isn't just a holiday. It's an escape, a new start, a chance to put things behind them.Until Oona, the elephant Will is riding on the beach, begins acting strangely, shying away from the sea. That's when the tsunami comes crashing in, and Oona begins to run.But when the tsunami is gone, Oona just keeps on running.‘Farm Boy’:The fascinating sequel to ‘War Horse’. Set on a farm in rural Devon, this is the story of Grandpa’s memories. Family secrets come to light as Michael’s wonderful writing depicts the moving relationship between grandfather and grandson.
Copyright (#ulink_b831b73d-189f-5aeb-8095-ecd9c9b2886a)
The Butterfly Lion
Text copyright © Michael Morpurgo 1996 Illustrations copyright© Christian Birmingham 1996
Jacket photographs; © Martin Harvey; Gallo Images/CORBIS (lion cub); Royalty-Free/CORBIS (savanna) Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The Butterfly Lion - 978-0-00-731735-6
EPub Edition © April 2010 ISBN: 9780007380626
Kaspar - Prince of Cats
Text © Michael Morpurgo 2008
Jacket photographs © Masterfile (cat); Shutterstock (sea and sky).
Jacket design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Kaspar - The Prince of Cats - 978-0-00-726700-2
Ebook Edition © MAY 2010 ISBN: 9780007385935
Born to Run
Text copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2007
Illustrations © Michael Foreman 2007
Jacket photographs: Dog by kind courtesy of the Retired Greyhound Trust; Background © Jonathan Gale/Getty Images
Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Born to Run - 978-0-00-723059-4
Ebook Edition © 2007 ISBN: 9780007369997
Running Wild
Text copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2009
Illustrations © Sarah Young 2009
Jacket photographs © PhotoAlto/Alamy (boy); Michael Llewellyn/Getty Images (Indian elephant); Gary Vestal/Getty Images (tiger); Michael Nichols/Getty Images (monkeys); JH Pete Carmichael/Getty Images (snake).
All other images © Shutterstock
Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Running Wild - 978-0-00-726701-9
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007380664
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea
Copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2006
Jacket photographs © by kind permission of the author (boy); Ralph A. Clevenger/Corbis (porthole); Patrick Robert/Sygma/Corbis (rivet texture); Kevin Scafer/Getty Images (albatross); Altrendo Images/Getty Images (splash); The Mariners' Museum/Corbis (ship); William Vandivert/Getty Images (waves).
Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea - 978-0-00-723058-7
Ebook Edition © 2006 ISBN: 9780007369980
Farm Boy
Text copyright © Michael Morpurgo 1997.
Illustrations copyright © Michael Foreman 1997
Jacket photographs © Shutterstock.com (horse); istockphoto.com (sky); Museum of Rural Life, Unversity of Reading (plough horses); Hulton Archive/Getty Images (soldiers).
Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Farm Boy - 978-0-00-745065-7
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007479627
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © JULY 2013 ISBN: 9780007536696
Version: 2017-02-02
Contents
Cover (#ubd8c744c-170f-5c0e-8e8b-a344feb0cc10)
Title Page (#u28b519ab-fc97-560a-ab5e-1f435d5a391e)
Copyright (#ulink_98f69dce-b005-5c15-a81d-ee74d3ffe7a3)
The Butterfly Lion (#u3fa7d7c3-1599-55ab-85b6-05ea844b1cf6)
Kaspar - Prince of Cats (#u96b0bf18-c131-56a5-8c19-d5dee29237e3)
Born to Run (#udce83dd6-e594-5da2-950e-6c9bc2f70916)
Running Wild (#u70de9cdf-614d-5876-b348-c5642132df44)
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea (#u44f547ac-e1e4-50c2-951f-a45fcf32a3d8)
Farm Boy (#u8ca8b067-fb25-5ad9-b7f0-2b6cb5cb8719)
About the Author
Also by Michael Morpurgo
About the Publisher
For Virginia McKenna
Contents
Dedication (#u10d35b77-a2b5-5d2a-9107-33e2fe2e628a)
Preface (#u3f809ce5-95c5-5e55-aa41-834179f45ed0)
Chilblains and Semolina Pudding (#u27c31d1c-f9f8-5288-9682-f440d2c40ca0)
Strange Meeting (#u994b14b1-6c2e-5444-a8e9-9f63f507458d)
Timbavati (#ufb0c1df7-c37a-56f4-8afd-82be695485a4)
Bertie and the Lion (#u65e3db4b-30bd-53d0-be05-dd8e71cb061d)
Running Free (#ufaa808c7-ee97-590e-ada8-73d23a79ccfa)
The Frenchman (#ucc698d6b-6353-545e-877b-46a28b003ec2)
Strawbridge (#u253459c5-c73f-539c-905a-aa5fef4d8e7c)
And All’s Well (#u80598151-c076-59f7-bc0b-bde08021246e)
A Lot of Old Codswallop (#uda01cdb3-9bfe-58fc-ad11-76d34a449561)
The White Prince (#uf5d8761d-69ca-5850-a9e9-318a238881e8)
A Miracle, A Miracle! (#u086e5bff-fe69-5ff8-ad1f-49badbe0674e)
The Butterfly Lion (#u27ac1f9b-00b6-5109-9fb9-63acde3c5317)
And the Lion Shall Lie Down with the Lamb (#uc7fb9991-819d-5ab5-a21c-84f2a35842b2)
Adonis Blues (#ua46979ca-5b2b-5c12-8f04-5ca7bab353e7)
Preface (#ulink_ad496d87-6db2-57b7-a275-8dbf3b1b6034)
The Butterfly Lion grew from several magical roots: the memories of a small boy who tried to run away from school a long time ago; a book about a pride of white lions discovered by Chris McBride; a chance meeting in a lift with Virginia McKenna, actress and champion of lions and all creatures born free; a true story of a soldier of the First World War who rescued some circus animals in France from certain death; and the sighting from a train of a white horse carved out on a chalky hillside near Westbury in Wiltshire.
To Chris McBride, to Virginia McKenna and to Gina Pollinger – many, many thanks. And to you the reader – enjoy it!
MICHAEL MORPURGO
February 1996
Chilblains and Semolina Pudding (#ulink_ff4a857c-80f6-5b14-aa10-49b32132c180)
Butterflies live only short lives. They flower and flutter for just a few glorious weeks, and then they die. To see them, you have to be in the right place at the right time. And that’s how it was when I saw the butterfly lion – I happened to be in just the right place, at just the right time. I didn’t dream him. I didn’t dream any of it. I saw him, blue and shimmering in the sun, one afternoon in June when I was young. A long time ago. But I don’t forget. I mustn’t forget. I promised them I wouldn’t.
I was ten, and away at boarding school in deepest Wiltshire. I was far from home and I didn’t want to be. It was a diet of Latin and stew and rugby and detentions and cross-country runs and chilblains and marks and squeaky beds and semolina pudding. And then there was Basher Beaumont who terrorised and tormented me, so that I lived every waking moment of my life in dread of him. I had often thought of running away, but only once ever plucked up the courage to do it.
I was homesick after a letter from my mother. Basher Beaumont had cornered me in the bootroom and smeared black shoe-polish in my hair. I had done badly in a spelling test, and Mr Carter had stood me in the corner with a book on my head all through the lesson – his favourite torture. I was more miserable than I had ever been before. I picked at the plaster in the wall, and determined there and then that I would run away.
I took off the next Sunday afternoon. With any luck I wouldn’t be missed till supper, and by that time I’d be home, home and free. I climbed the fence at the bottom of the school park, behind the trees where I couldn’t be seen. Then I ran for it. I ran as if bloodhounds were after me, not stopping till I was through Innocents Breach and out onto the road beyond. I had my escape all planned. I would walk to the station – it was only five miles or so – and catch the train to London. Then I’d take the underground home. I’d just walk in and tell them that I was never, ever going back.
There wasn’t much traffic, but all the same I turned up the collar of my raincoat so that no one could catch a glimpse of my uniform. It was beginning to rain now, those heavy hard drops that mean there’s more of the same on the way. I crossed the road, and ran along the wide grass verge under the shelter of the trees.
Beyond the grass verge was a high brick wall, much of it covered in ivy. It stretched away into the distance, continuous as far as the eye could see, except for a massive arched gateway at the bend of the road. A great stone lion bestrode the gateway. As I came closer I could see he was roaring in the rain, his lip curled, his teeth bared. I stopped and stared up at him for a moment. That was when I heard a car slowing down behind me. I did not think twice. I pushed open the iron gate, darted through, and flattened myself behind the stone pillar. I watched the car until it disappeared round the bend.
To be caught would mean a caning, four strokes, maybe six, across the back of the knees. Worse, I would be back at school, back to detentions, back to Basher Beaumont. To go along the road was dangerous, too dangerous. I would try to cut across country to the station. It would be longer that way, but far safer.
Strange Meeting (#ulink_6e230958-3088-5eb3-91e0-8be8a59f5d11)
I was still deciding which direction to take when I heard a voice from behind me.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
I turned.
“Who are you?” she asked again. The old lady who stood before me was no bigger than I was. She scrutinised me from under the shadow of her dripping straw hat. She had piercing dark eyes that I did not want to look into.
“I didn’t think it would rain,” she said, her voice gentler. “Lost, are you?”
I said nothing. She had a dog on a leash at her side, a big dog. There was an ominous growl in his throat, and his hackles were up all along his back.
She smiled. “The dog says you’re on private property,” she went on, pointing her stick at me accusingly. She edged aside my raincoat with the end of her stick. “Run away from that school, did you? Well, if it’s anything like it used to be, I can’t say I blame you. But we can’t just stand here in the rain, can we? You’d better come inside. We’ll give him some tea, shall we, Jack? Don’t you worry about Jack. He’s all bark and no bite.” Looking at Jack, I found that hard to believe.
I don’t know why, but I never for one moment thought of running off. I often wondered later why I went with her so readily. I think it was because she expected me to, willed me to somehow. I followed the old lady and her dog up to the house, which was huge, as huge as my school. It looked as if it had grown out of the ground. There was hardly a brick or a stone or a tile to be seen. The entire building was smothered in red creeper, and there were a dozen ivy-clad chimneys sprouting skywards from the roof.
We sat down close to the stove in a vast vaulted kitchen. “The kitchen’s always the warmest place,” she said, opening the oven door. “We’ll have you dry in no time. Scones?” she went on, bending down with some difficulty and reaching inside. “I always have scones on a Sunday. And tea to wash it down. All right for you?” She went on chatting away as she busied herself with the kettle and the teapot. The dog eyed me all the while from his basket, unblinking. “I was just thinking,” she said. “You’ll be the first young man I’ve had inside this house since Bertie.” She was silent for a while.
The smell of the scones wafted through the kitchen.
