This complete disaster, however, soon appears to be no less than a blessing for both! They can help each other out: Annyrose can teach Joaquin how to read so he will know where danger lies, and in turn he can make sure she's safe and fed. But in a time when corruption and greed are running wild, will their friendship be more than fool's gold?
|Product dimensions:||6.50(w) x 1.50(h) x 9.50(d)|
|Age Range:||8 - 11 Years|
About the Author
But his childhood was not so typical after all. Born in Brooklyn, he grew up in San Diego during the Great Depression and decided in the fifth grade to become amagician. Just out of high school, he traveled widely in vaudeville and with a midnight ghost-and-goblin show. "I was on the way to becoming a writer. I just didn't know it."
After wartime service with the U.S. Naval Reserve, he finished college and worked as a reporter on the San Diego Daily Journal. When the paper folded in 1950, he turned to fiction writing. One of Fleischman's novels was bought for a major motion picture, and he was offered a contract to write the screenplay.
"My young children led me into writing children's books. They didn't understand what I did for a living. Other fathers, they learned, left home in the morning and returned at the end of the day. I was always around the house. I decided to clear up the mystery and wrote a book just for them." Today he divides his time between writing films and children's books.
Fleischman says that when he knew very little about writing, he wrote very fast. Now it takes him longer: three months to a year to complete a short book, and sometimes much longer if he can't figure out how to get his characters out of the jams he has put them in. "I write my books in the dark. I don't like to know what's going to happen next until I get there. It sustains my interest. I'm anxious to get to my desk each morning to find out what is going to happen."
Fleischman finds ideas lurking everywhere. His novel The Thirteenth Floor began with the superstition that there is something evil and magical in the number thirteen. The Ghost in the Noonday Sun arose from the folk belief that anyone born at the stroke of midnight has the power to see ghosts. The problem for the writer, he says, is not so much in finding an idea as in figuring out what to do with it. That may take years.
As a children's book author Sid Fleischman feels a special obligation to his readers. "The books we enjoy as children stay with us forever — they have a special impact. Paragraph after paragraph and page after page, the author must deliver his or her best work." With more than 35 books to his credit, some of which have been made into motion pictures, Sid Fleischman can be assured that his work will make a special impact.
Sid Fleischman writes his books at a huge table cluttered with projects: story ideas, library books, research, letters, notes, pens, pencils, and a computer. He lives in an old-fashioned, two-story house full of creaks and character, and enjoys hearing the sound of the nearby Pacific Ocean. He has always lived by the ocean and now lives in Santa Monica, California.
Read an Excerpt
I had hardly got three miles down the road when 0.0. Mary herself caught me running away and locked me up in the harness room off the barn. It was infernally dark, and I knew there were black widow spiders in there. I tried to keep my mind off them except to think that 0.0. Mary could give black widows lessons in meanness.
I had been padlocked almost a week when I heard someone come around the pond on a winded horse, frightening off the squawking ducks and mud hens. I heard a yell; "Mary! 0.0. Mary! That Mexican's a-coming after you! The whole gang of 'em! Run for your life! They ain't far behind!"
It was hardly a moment before a key started rattling in the padlock. 0.0. Mary flung open the door. The white afternoon sunlight about blinded me.She tore through the saddles and harnesses and general trash until she came up with a scuffed red hatbox with the tips of yellow feathers sticking out the lid. I'd been using the box to eat on when she remembered to bring me some food.
I could hardly imagine that she'd ever owned a pretty hat. She had a head of hair as matted as a dead cat's. But hadn't I heard her say she'd once been with the circus or a showboat or something? That must have been a hundred years ago, I thought. I don't know what her real name was. She told me that everyone called her 0.0. because her eyes were always open, and don't forget it.
She gave the leather box a smile with that fossil face of hers and then seemed to notice me for the first time.
"Out of my way, child! Run for your life!"
"What on earth for?"
"Annyrose! Didn't you hear? That cutthroat don'tspare women and children! Why are you standing there? Contrary orphan! Run!"
"I'm not exactly an orphan," I said. After all, I had kin. I had a brother still alive.
"It's no skin off my bones if that confounded outlaw murders you in your shoes!"
If I'd wanted to argue fine points with her, I'd have reminded her they weren't my shoes, either. She'd sold my New Orleans petticoats and dresses months ago. She had me walking around in some boy's castoffs, shirt and pants, and brown boots as curled up as dead fish.
"Don't claim I didn't warn you!" she shouted, pushing me out of the way. "And don't think he'll spare you! It's the devil on horseback riding this way! It's Wakeen himself!"
I answered, calm and snooty, "He isn't coming after me."
"Stupid girl!" she snapped. "His arms drip blood up to his elbows. And if he don't finish you, there's Three Fingered Jack to do it. They'll cackle over your bones, the whole gang of them! Pesky foreigners! Greasers!"
That was what she called her Mexican help, when she had any. The foul and lumpish woman didn't have a good word for anyone. "You don't aim on coming back, do you?" I asked, hoping I might be seeing the last of her forever.
"Even if they burn the place to the ground, I'll be back," she snapped.
Moments laterI saw her with her hatbox racing down the road in her dusty black buggy. It was piled withloose dresses and her big goose-feather mattress, all rolled up and puffy as a cloud. With the horsewhip held aloft, she struck sparks in the air.
I'd heard the horrible tales about Wakeen, and they were enough to give anyone the fits. Now as I saw dust rising behind the hill, I decided I ought not to be passing the time on the porch having myself a long fresh drink out of the water barrel.
I got my few belongings in a pillow slip, in case the outlaws set the ranch on fire. My eyes lit on the bundles of hay standing out in the field like a flock of scarecrows. With my bootheels flopping in the dirt, I hurried to the field and snugged myself inside the nearest stack of hay -- but not too deep. I wanted to be able to see the famous cutthroat.
As I waited, I thought I must be a true child of calamity to be standing all covered with smelly hay. Ever since we'd set out for California, my mother and brother, Lank, and I, bad luck came leaping out at us. Crossing Panama on muleback to reach our ship in the Pacific Ocean, Mama had caught a jungle fever. We had had to bury her at sea off the coast of Mexico.
When Lank and I landed in San Diego, where Mama had planned to start a school, our money was stolen right out of Lank's left coat pocket. Not only our money but all our papers, including a guide to the gold country up north that Lank had got hold of. It showed an X mark near a place called Mariposa where there was supposed to be a rich vein of gold.
In order to eat, we had had to sell off Mama's trunkful of books, including all of Shakespeare in red leather bindings. And then Lank got it into his head to walk to the gold diggings a few hundred miles north, the both of us, and strike it rich like everybody else. He figured we'd outfit ourselves in Sacramento first. So we set out with all our belongings on our backs like peddlers. But you'd think someone had thrown a curse over me.
Mama never believed in evil curses and hokey-pokey stuff like that, so I figured bad luck just happened. And when it did, Mama never spared it more than ten minutes of her time and just got on with things. I tried to get on with things, but why couldn't I have tripped over my own long feet and broken my ankle in a better spot? Lank carried me to the nearest house, which was only a mile away. Tarnation! It turned out to be 0.0. Mary's horse ranch.
Only she was just back from across the border in Mexico, and so powdered and gussied up you'd hardly recognize her. She splinted my leg with greasewood sticks and seemed as kindly as your grandmother. So Lank left me there to heal and said he'd send coach fare as soon as he could. And she said not to worry, for as soon as I could walk on my leg, I could do little things around the horse ranch to earn my keep.
Lank was hardly out of sight when she pulled off her wig and put it in mothballs. The next day I found her holding up my dresses and lace petticoats to the light. They disappeared to pay for my keep. I cried when she sold my violin in its black leather case and every note of my Mozart and Schubert. She even cut off my long yellow hair and sold it.
With all the comings and goings around the place, it didn't take me long to figure out that she dealt in stolen horses and earrings and anything else you didn't hang on to with both hands and a foot. I think she must have stolen letters from Lank. He wrote me once from Sacramento to say he'd be sending me coach fare, but I never saw it.
I was awakened from my thoughts by the squawk of ducks from the pond. When I looked out again, there came the bandits, about ten of them, with their hawk's eyes looking out from the black shade of large straw hats. Yellow cartridge belts made X marks across their chests. The men looked as stiff as soldiers, and I wondered if they'd fought in the war we'd finished off with Mexico. The Mexicans had sold us California and Texas when it was over, but when it was over, my papa didn't come back. Closer and closer the horsemen came, walking their beasts now, with only the silver jingle of spurs and the snort of a horse to disturb the afternoon quiet.
I recognized a big Mexican by the finger missing off his right hand and figured he must be Three-Fingered Jack. My gaze shifted to the bandit riding beside him, the one with the silver buttons running down his legs. He smiled. His teeth gave off a flash as white as oyster shells. That must be Wakeen, I thought.
He made my blood run cold, smiles or not. I'd never been so near to murdering villains. It surprised me that Wakeen hardly appeared much older than my brother, Lank, who was seventeen. And the outlaw wasn't even as tall. He wore a red scarf around his long black hair so that he looked more like a pirate than a general leading his army of cutthroats. Step by step he advanced. He frightened me even though his arms weren't stained with blood all the way up to his elbows.
He smoked a thin black cigar as crooked as a twig and wore silver spurs almost as big and spiky as sunflowers. He said something in Spanish, and his men began ransacking the place, looking for 0.0. Mary. He dismounted and helped himself to the water dipper on the porch.
As I peered out, I saw him staring down at the dust, studying it. He must have had a keen eye for tracking because he began following my fresh footsteps as directly as if I'd left a trail of breadcrumbs like the kids in the fairy tale. I saw him pull a pistol from his sash, shift to one side, and cock back the trigger.
"Buenas tardes, Calico. I heard a whisper that 0.0. Mary was hiding you. Do you wish a moment to say your last prayers? It is me, Wakeen!"
I was almost afraid to breathe. If the outlaw saw even a few straws jiggle, he might be edgy enough to fire.
Copyright © 1998 by Sid Fleischman Bandit's Moon. Copyright © by Sid Fleischman. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Most girls would be upset if a gang of bandits rode in, but newly orphaned Annyrose Smith sees it as an opportunity and improvement. When Annyrose breaks her ankle, her brother leaves her to heal in the care of O. O. Mary at her horse ranch as he goes off to make his fortune in the gold digging territory. The villainous O. O. Mary is terrible, and she has Annyrose "walking around in some boy's castoffs, shirt and pants, and brown boots as curled up as dead fish." She even cuts of Annyrose's long yellow hair and sells it. Locked in a barn since she tried to run away from the villainous O. O. Mary, Annyrose pleads with the bandit called "Wakeen" to let her go along with the gang. When the infamous Mexican bandit Wakeen Murieta and his outlaw band raid O. O. Mary's property, Annyrose is discovered hiding in the hay. Annyrose convinces the bandit called "Wakeen" to let her go with him if she'll teach him how to read. Thinking she is a boy, Wakeen agrees to take her--provided she'll teach him to read so that he can find out what the gringos/yankees are saying about him on wanted posters and in the newspapers. Annyrose and Wakeen are both surprised when they discover Wakeen's name is really spelled J-o-a-q-u-i-n not W-a-k-e-e-n which was what Annyrose had taught him. SO Annyrose becomes a part of Joaquin's quest for revenge against the people who had murdered his family and stolen his land. She comes to realize that the bandits are only stealing what was taken from them when ruthless white settlers came. Who wrote laws to pry off those with darker skins from the diggings.
This book by the funny Sid Fleishman is an action-packed adventure story, but also teaches readers a lot of California history. The heroine of this tale is the newly orphaned Annyrose. The girl's father died in the Mexican-American War and her mother died of a fever when she, Annyrose, and Annyrose's brother, Lank, were on their way to California. Misfortune drops Annyrose into the clutches of the awful O.O. Mary, who steals all of Annyrose's clothes, dresses her like a boy, and locks her in the harness shed. Annyrose's rescuer is none other than the bandit Joaquin Murieta (a true figure from the Gold Rush era). Annyrose ends up riding with Murieta's band to the gold diggins', all the while searching for her brother. Both Annyrose and the reader must debate many a moral issue on the journey: Is Murieta really a villain or is he another "Robin Hood" as many claim him to be? Were the Mexicans who were living in California wronged by the "Gringos" when California became part of the United States? Is stealing for a cause wrong? Fleishman added an author's note at the end of the book where he debates some of these issues. There are several black and white drawings by Jos. A. Smith that add visual interest to the story.
A short, lighthearted book that is just simply a lot of fun to read! The characters, especially O.O. Mary and Joaquin the Bandit, are hilarious and endearing. A funny, action-packed page turner that will especially appeal to middle school readers looking for fun, enjoyable adventures.I loved this book when I was a kid, it was one of my favorites.
This junior historical fiction book takes place in California in the mid-1800's. It's filled with adventure and excitement. The reading level is low enough to make enjoyable even for younger children, although with enough action and historical content to make it fun for all ages. It makes a great read-aloud too!
Bandit's Moon is a great book for fourth graders to read. It tells the tale of the famous robber, Joaquin Murretta and the relationship he develops with a young girl. The story has lots of twists and turns. This book ties in nicely with the gold rush era, a topic covered in Social Studies for California history. I hope you enjoy reading this book. My students loved it and so did I.
The Bandit's Moon was the greatest book in history. It all started when I was in 4th grade. My teacher read it to me, and it was fantastic. I especially loved Joaquin Murrieta, the horse thief. He is my favorite character. Now I am in 5th grade and I found my favorite book once again. I am very happy. My favorite part of the book was when they caught Joaquin, the bandit, but Annyrose came to the rescue. She said that Joaquin can't read or write his name. But then she showed Joaquin a cookbook and told him to read Herring Pie. It was hilarious.
Number one, it's hillarious. I didn't have any idea of what twist Mr. Fleischman would inject into the plot. He carries his readers into, through, around, and under the dangerous hideouts of a band of 19th century bandits with great speed. At the story's end, I felt I knew some of the secrets of the characters, but definitely not all.
This book is called Bandits Moon. It was written by Sid Fleichman and illustrated by Peter Sis. I liked this book because it was an adventure story. It is about a girl that is left with a mean old lady. Then some bandits come and she bribes them into taking her with them. They become friends but she still wants to get back to her brother. The bandits won¿t let her. This book is sort of hard to under stand because some of the words are in Spanish. I would recommend this story to a friend because it is a good adventure story.