The Sign of the Beaver 海狸的信号(纽伯瑞奖) ISBN 9780440479000 pmlz 电子版 pdf docx 网盘 kindle azw3 下载

　　Twelve-year-old Matt is left on his own in the Maine

wilderness while his father leaves to bring the rest of the family

to their new settlement. When he befriends Attean, an Indian

chief's grandson, he is invited to join the Beaver tribe and move

north. Should Matt abandon his hopes of ever seeing his family

again and go on to a new life?

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　　Elizabeth George Speare was born in Massachusetts surrounded

by a large extended family and has lived in New England all her

life.  A graduate of Boston University, she always aspired to

write, but actually began when her two children were in junior high

school.

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　　Matt stood at the edge of the clearing for some time after his

father had gone out of sight among the trees. There was just a

chance that his father might turn back, that perhaps he had

forgotten something or had some last word of advice. This was one

time Matt reckoned he wouldn?t mind the advice, no matter how many

times he had heard it before. But finally he had to admit that this

was not going to happen. His father had really gone. He was alone,

with miles of wilderness stretching on every side.

　　He turned and looked back at the log house. It was a fair house,

he thought; his mother would have no cause to be ashamed of it. He

had helped to build every inch of it. He had helped to cut down the

spruce trees and haul the logs and square and notch them. He had

stood at one end of every log and raised it, one on top of the

other, fitting the notched ends together as snugly as though they

had grown that way. He had climbed the roof to fasten down the

cedar splints with long poles, and dragged up pine boughs to cover

them. Behind the cabin were the mounds of corn he had helped to

plant, the green blades already shooting up, and the pumpkin vines

just showing between the stumps of trees.

　　If only it were not so quiet. He had been alone before. His

father had often gone into the forest to hunt, for hours on end.

Even when he was there, he was not much of a talker. Sometimes they

had worked side by side through a whole morning without his

speaking a single word. But this silence was different. It coiled

around Matt and reached into his stomach to settle there in a hard

knot.

　　He knew it was high time his father was starting back. This was

part of the plan that the family had worked out together in the

long winter of 1768, sitting by lamplight around the pine table

back in Massachusetts. His father had spread out the surveyor?s map

and traced the boundaries of the land he had purchased in Maine

territory. They would be the first settlers in a new township. In

the spring, when the ice melted, Matt and his father would travel

north. They would take passage on a ship to the settlement at the

mouth of the Penobscot River. There they would find some man with a

boat to take them up the river and then on up a smaller river that

branched off from it, many days? distance from the settlement.

Finally they would strike out on foot into the forest and claim

their own plot of land. They would clear a patch of ground, build a

cabin, and plant some corn. In the summer his father would go back

to Massachusetts to fetch his mother and sister and the new baby,

who would be born while they were gone. Matt would stay behind and

guard the cabin and the corn patch.

　　It hadn?t been quite so easy as it had sounded back in their

house in Quincy. Matt had had to get used to going to sleep at

night with every muscle in his body aching. But the log house was

finished. It had only one room. Before winter they would add a loft

for him and his sister to sleep in. Inside there were shelves along

one wall and a sturdy puncheon table with two stools. One of these

days, his father promised, he would cut out a window and fasten

oiled paper to let in the light. Someday the paper would be

replaced with real glass. Against the wall was a chimney of smaller

logs, daubed and lined with clay from the creek. This too was a

temporary structure. Over and over his father had warned Matt that

it wasn?t as safe as a stone chimney and that he had to watch out

for flying sparks. He needn?t fear. After all the work of building

this house, Matt wasn?t going to let it burn down about his

ears.

　　?Six weeks,? his father had said that morning. ?Maybe seven. Hard

to reckon exactly. With your ma and sister we?ll have slow going,

specially with the new little one.

　　?You may lose track of the weeks,? he had added. ?Easy thing to

do when you?re alone. Might be well to make notches on a stick,

seven notches to a stick. When you get to the seventh stick you can

start looking for us.?

　　A silly thing to do, Matt thought, as though he couldn?t count

the weeks for himself. But he wouldn?t argue about it, not on the

last morning.

　　Then his father reached up to a chink in the log wall and took

down the battered tin box that held his watch and his compass and a

few silver coins. He took out the big silver watch.

　　?Every time you cut a notch,? he said, ?remember to wind this up

at the same time.?

　　Matt took the watch in his hand as gently as if it were a bird?s

egg. ?You aim to leave it, Pa?? he asked.

　　?It belonged to your grandpa. Would?ve belonged to you anyhow

sooner or later. Might as well be now.?

　　?You mean ? it?s mine??

　　?Aye, it?s yourn. Be kind of company, hearing it tick.?

　　The lump in Matt?s throat felt as big as the watch. This was the

finest thing his father had ever possessed.

　　?I?ll take care of it,? he managed finally.

　　?Aye. I knowed you would. Mind you don?t wind it up too

tight.?

　　Then, just before he left, his father had given him a second

gift. Thinking of it, Matt walked back into the cabin and looked up

at his father?s rifle, hanging on two pegs over the door.

　　?I?ll take your old blunderbuss with me,? his father had said.

?This one aims truer. But mind you, don?t go banging away at

everything that moves. Wait till you?re dead sure. There?s plenty

of powder if you don?t waste it.?

　　It was the first sign he had given that he felt uneasy about

leaving Matt here alone. Matt wished now that he could have said

something to reassure his father, instead of standing there

tongue-tied. But if he had the chance again, he knew he wouldn?t do

any better. They just weren?t a family to put things into

words.

　　He reached up and took down the rifle. It was lighter than his

old matchlock, the one his father had carried away with him in

exchange. This was a fine piece, the walnut stock as smooth and

shining as his mother?s silk dress. It was a mite long, but it had

a good balance. With this gun he wouldn?t need to waste powder. So

it wouldn?t hurt to take one shot right now, just to try the feel

of it.

　　He knew his father always kept that rifle as clean as a

new-polished spoon. But because he enjoyed handling it, Matt poked

about in the touchhole with the metal pick. From the powder horn he

shook a little of the black powder into the pan. Then he took one

lead bullet out of the pouch, wrapped it in a patch of cloth, and

rammed it into the barrel. As he worked, he whistled loudly into

the stillness. It made the knot in his stomach loosen a

little.

　　As he stepped into the woods, a bluejay screeched a warning. So

it was some time before he spotted anything to shoot at. Presently

he saw a red squirrel hunched on a branch, with its tail curled up

behind its ears. He lifted the rifle and sighted along the barrel,

minding his father?s advice and waiting till he was dead

sure.

　　The clean feel of the shot delighted him. It didn?t set him back

on his heels like his old matchlock. Still, he hadn?t quite got the

knack of it. He caught the flick of a tail as the squirrel

scampered to an upper branch.

　　I could do better with my own gun, he thought. This rifle of his

father?s was going to take some getting used to.

　　Ruefully he trudged back to the cabin. For his noon meal he sat

munching a bit of the johnnycake his father had baked that morning.

Already he was beginning to realize that time was going to move

slowly. A whole afternoon to go before he could cut that first

notch.

　　Seven sticks. That would be August. He would have a birthday

before August. He supposed his father had forgotten that, with so

many things on his mind. By the time his family got here, he would

be thirteen years old.

　　From the Trade Paperback edition.

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