Philip Pullman - The Scarecrow and His Servant

Witty, affectionate, and fun.

The book is a perfectly made gem, full of fun, fireworks, and wit. We continue to be lucky to have Philip Pullman writing for us.

Philip Pullman, now acknowledged as one of the greatest children's authors of our time, is also one of the funniest and most accessible.

[Pullman's] touch is so sure, his plotting so flawless, that you know a new Pullman means a rare treat. The Scarecrow and His Servant does not disappoint.

A picaresque adventure, with a dash of Dr. Dolittle, a touch of The Wizard of Oz, and a hefty dose of Cervantes. A tale of great charm and wit.

Wonderful banter between clueless master and wily, kindhearted servant brings joy to the ear. Give your little reader a copy or read a chapter aloud at bedtimejust be prepared for the inevitable clamor for more Scarecrow when it's time to turn out the lights.

HIS DARK MATERIALS

The Golden Compass

The Subtle Knife

The Amber Spyglass

Lyra's Oxford

THE SALLY LOCKHART MYSTERIES

The Ruby in the Smoke

The Shadow in the North

The Tiger in the Well

The Tin Princess

The Broken Bridge

The White Mercedes

Count Karlstein

I Was a Rat!

Puss in Boots

Spring-Heeled Jack

THE SCARECROW AND HIS SERVANT

To Freddie

CONTENTS

O ne day old Mr. Pandolfo, who hadn't been feeling at all well, decided that it was time to make a scarecrow. The birds had been very troublesome. Come to that, his rheumatism had been troublesome, and the soldiers had been troublesome, and the weather had been troublesome, and his cousins had been troublesome. It was all getting a bit too much for him. Even his old pet raven had flown away.

He couldn't do anything about his rheumatism, or the soldiers, or the weather, or his cousins, who were the biggest problem of all. There was a whole family of them, the Buffalonis, and they wanted to get hold of his land and divert all the springs and streams, and drain all the wells, and put up a factory to make weedkiller and rat poison and insecticide.

All those troubles were too big for old Mr. Pandolfo to manage, but he thought he could do something about the birds, at least. So he put together a fine-looking scarecrow, with a big solid turnip for a head and a sturdy broomstick for a backbone, and dressed him in his old tweed suit, and stuffed him tightly with straw. Then he tucked a short letter inside him, wrapped in oilskin for safety, to show where he belonged.

There you are, he said. Now you remember what your job is, and remember where you belong. Be courteous, and be brave, and be honorable, and be kind. And the best of blooming luck.

He stuck the scarecrow into the middle of the wheat field and went home to lie down because he wasn't feeling well at all.

That night another farmer came along and stole the scarecrow, being too lazy to make one himself. And the next night someone else came along and stole him again.

So little by little the scarecrow moved away from the place where he was made, and he got more and more tattered and torn, and finally he didn't look nearly as smart as he had when Mr. Pandolfo put him together. He stood in the middle of a muddy field, and he stayed there.

But one night there was a thunderstorm. It was a very violent one, and everyone in the district shivered and trembled and jumped as the thunder went off like cannon fire and the lightning lashed down like whips. The scarecrow stood there in the wind and the rain, taking no notice.

And so he might have stayed; but then there came one of those million-to-one chances that are like winning the lottery. All his molecules and atoms and elementary particles and whatnot were lined up in exactly the right way to switch on when the lightning struck him, which it did at two in the morning, fizzing its way through his turnip and down his broomstick and into the mud.

The Scarecrow blinked with surprise and looked all around. There wasn't much to see except a field of mud, and not much light to see it by except the flashes of lightning.

Still, there wasn't a bird in sight. Excellent, said the Scarecrow. On the same night a small boy called Jack happened to be sheltering in a barn not far away. The thunder was so loud that it woke him out of his sleep with a jump. At first he thought it was cannon fire, and he sat up terrified with his eyes wide open. He could think of nothing worse than soldiers and guns; if it weren't for the soldiers, he'd still have a family and a home and a bed to sleep in.

But as he sat there with his heart thumping, he heard the downpour of the rain on the roof and realized that the bang had only been thunder and not gunfire. He gave a sigh of relief and lay down again, shivering and sneezing and turning over and over in the hay trying to get warm, until finally he fell asleep.

By the morning the storm had cleared away, and the sky was a bright cold blue. Jack woke up again feeling colder than ever, and hungry, too. But he knew how to look for food, and before long he'd gathered up some grains of wheat and a couple of turnip tops and a limp carrot, and he sat down in the doorway of the barn in the sunlight to eat them.

Could be worse, he said to himself.

He ate very slowly to make it last, and then he just sat there, getting warm. Someone would come along soon to chase him away, but for the moment he was safe.

Then he heard a voice calling from across the fields. Jack was curious, so he stood up and shaded his eyes to look. The shouting came from somewhere in the field beyond the road, and since he had nothing else to do, he stood up and walked along toward it.

The shouts came from a scarecrow, in the middle of the muddiest field in sight, and he was waving his arms wildly and yelling at the top of his voice and leaning over at a crazy angle.