Tales from Moominvalley (Moomins) - Softcover

Jansson, Tove

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312625421 ISBN 13: 9780312625429

Verlag: Square Fish, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

If you haven't met a Moomin yet, you're missing the most magical fun!

Perfect for readers of all ages, join the beloved, world-famous characters of Moominvalley on an unforgettable adventure in Tales from Moominvalley--includes black-and-white illustrations throughout.

"Genius." --Philip Pullman

"Clever, gentle, witty, and completely engrossing." --Jeff Smith, author of Bone

In nine delightfully funny stories about the triumphs and tribulations of the citizens of Moominvalley, readers will discover how the Moomin family save young Ninny from permanent invisibility, and what happens when Moomintroll catches the last dragon in the world.

In the 80 years since the first Moomin novel appeared, Tove Jansson's timeless stories have continued to captivate audiences across the globe with their adventure, humor, and endless wisdom. Whether you're a lifelong fan or a first-time visitor to Moominvalley, these classic books are a must-have for anyone who wishes the world was a bit more magical.

The original Moomin novels by Tove Jansson:
● Comet in Moominland
● Finn Family Moomintroll
● Moominpappa's Memoirs
● Moominsummer Madness
● Moominland Midwinter
● Tales from Moominvalley
● Moominpappa at Sea
● Moominvalley in November

Books for the littlest Moomin fans, up to 3 years old:
● Moomin's Lift the Flap Hide and Seek: with Big Flaps for Little Hands
● Moomin's Little Book of Numbers
● Moomin's Little Book of Words

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tove Jansson (1914 - 2001) was a legendary Finnish children's book author, artist, and creator of the Moomins, who came to life in children's books, comic strips, theater, opera, film, radio, theme parks, and TV.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Tales from Moominvalley

By Tove Jansson

Square Fish

Copyright © 2010 Tove Jansson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780312625429

The Spring Tune

One calm and cloudless evening, toward the end of April, Snufkin found himself far enough to the north to see still-unmelted patches of snow on the northern slopes.

He had been walking all day through undisturbed landscapes, listening to the cries of the birds also on their way northward, home from the South.

Walking had been easy, because his knapsack was nearly empty and he had no worries on his mind. He felt happy about the wood and the weather, and himself. Tomorrow and yesterday were both at a distance, and just at present the sun was shining brightly red between the birches, and the air was cool and soft.

“It’s the right evening for a tune,” Snufkin thought. A new tune, one part expectation, two parts spring sadness, and for the rest just the great delight of walking alone and liking it.

He had kept this tune under his hat for several days, but hadn’t quite dared to take it out yet. It had to grow into a kind of happy conviction. Then he would simply have to put his lips to the mouth-organ, and all the notes would jump instantly into their places.

If he released them too soon, they might get stuck crossways and make only a half-good tune, or he might lose them altogether and never be in the right mood to get hold of them again. Tunes are serious things, especially if they have to be jolly and sad at the same time.

But this evening Snufkin felt rather sure of his tune. It was there, waiting, nearly full-grown—and it was going to be the best he ever made.

Then, when he arrived in Moominvalley, he’d sit on the bridge rail and play it, and Moomintroll would say at once: “That’s a good one. Really a good one.”

Snufkin stopped in his tracks, feeling just a little bit uneasy. Yes, Moomintroll, always waiting and longing. Moomintroll, who sat at home, who waited for him and admired him, and who always told him: “Of course you have to feel free. Naturally you must go away. I do understand that you have to be alone at times.”

And all the while his eyes were black with disappointment and no one could help it.

“Oh, my, oh, my,” Snufkin said to himself and continued on his way.

“Oh, my, oh, my. He’s got such a lot of feelings, this Moomintroll. I won’t think of him now. He’s a splendid Moomin, but I don’t have to think of him now. Tonight I’m alone with my tune, and tonight isn’t tomorrow.”

In a little while Snufkin had managed to forget all about Moomintroll. He was sniffing around for a good place to camp in, and when he heard a brook a bit farther on in the wood he went toward the sound.

The last red ray of sunlight had vanished between the birches. Now came the spring twilight, slow and blue. All the wood was changed, and the white pillars of the birches went wandering farther and farther off in the blue dusk.

The brook was a good one.

It went rushing clear and brown over wads of last year’s leaves, through small tunnels of leftover ice, swerving through the green moss and throwing itself headlong down in a small waterfall on to a white-sand bottom. In places it droned sharp as a mosquito, then it tried to sound great and menacing, stopped, gurgled with a mouthful of melted snow, and laughed at it all.

Snufkin stood listening in the damp moss. “I must have the brook in my tune also,” he thought. “In the refrain, I think.”

A small stone suddenly came loose near the waterfall and raised the pitch of the brook a whole octave.

“Not bad,” Snufkin said admiringly. “That’s the way to do it. A sudden change, just in passing. I’ll have to find that brook a tune of its own.”

He took out his old saucepan and filled it from the waterfall. Then he went in under the firs to look for firewood. The ground was still wet from the spring thaw and the rains, and Snufkin had to crawl far under a brambly windfall to find any dry sticks. When he reached out, someone gave a sudden shout and flashed past him and off among the firs, still crying and squeaking all the way.

“Oh, yes,” Snufkin said. “Creeps and woodies everywhere. Funny how nervous they always seem to be. The smaller the jumpier.”

He found a dried stump and some sticks and built himself a good campfire by the brook. Snufkin was used to cooking his own dinner. He never cooked a dinner for other people if he could avoid it, nor did he care much for other people’s dinners. So many people insisted on talking when they had a meal.

Also they had a great liking for chairs and tables, and some of them used napkins. He even had heard of a Hemulen who changed his clothes everytime he was about to eat, but that was probably slander.

A little distractedly, Snufkin ate his meager soup while he rested his eyes on the green moss by the birches.

The tune was quite near at hand, easy to catch by the tail. But there was time enough to wait: it was hedged in and couldn’t get away. No, better to wash the dishes first, then light a pipe—and afterwards, when the campfire was burning down and the night creatures started calling for each other, then he’d have it.

Snufkin was washing his saucepan in the brook when he caught sight of the Creep. It was sitting on the far side below a tree root, looking at him. Its eyes were scared but very interested, following Snufkin’s every movement.

Two shy eyes under a mop of hair. Just the look people have who are never noticed.

Snufkin pretended that he hadn’t seen the Creep. He raked up his fire and cut himself some fir twigs to sit on. He took out his pipe and lit it. He puffed a few clouds of smoke toward the night sky and waited for the spring tune.

It didn’t come. Instead he felt the Creep’s eyes upon him. They watched everything he did, admiringly, and he began to feel uneasy once more. He clapped his paws together and shouted: “Shoo! Be off!”

At this the Creep slunk out from under the tree root—it was still on the other side of the brook—and said, very shyly: “I hope I haven’t scared you? I know who you are. You’re Snufkin.”

And then the Creep stepped straight into the water and started to wade across. The brook was rather too broad for it, and the water was ice-cold. A couple of times the Creep lost its foothold and tumbled over, but Snufkin was feeling so uneasy that he simply didn’t think of giving it a hand.

Finally a rather thin and miserable Creep crawled ashore and said with chattering teeth: “Hello, I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Hello,” Snufkin answered equally coldly.

“May I warm myself by your fire?” the Creep continued, its wet little face shining with happiness. “Just think of it, then I’ll be the Creep who has sat by Snufkin’s campfire. I’ll never forget that.”

The Creep edged closer, laid one paw on Snufkin’s knapsack, and solemnly whispered: “Is this where you keep the mouth-organ? Do you have it here?”

“Yes,” Snufkin said, rather crossly. His tune was lost, loneliness was gone, all was different. He clenched his teeth...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Square Fish
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2010
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312625421
• ISBN 13: 9780312625429
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Zeichner: Jansson Tove
• Anzahl der Seiten: 192
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Square Fish; https://us.macmillan.com/publishers/square-fish-books/; ; 120 Broadway; New York; NY; 10271; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland