Animals
![Wilson Rawls - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_wilson_rawls.jpg)
Where the Red Fern Grows
Read the beloved classic that captures the powerful bond between man and man's best friend. This edition also includes a special note to readers from Newbery Medal winner and Printz Honor winner Clare Vanderpool.
Billy has long dreamt of owning not one, but two, dogs. So when he's finally able to save up enough money for two pups to call his own-Old Dan and Little Ann-he's ecstatic. It doesn't matter that times are tough; together they'll roam the hills of the Ozarks.
Soon Billy and his hounds become the finest hunting team in the valley. Stories of their great achievements spread throughout the region, and the combination of Old Dan's brawn, Little Ann's brains, and Billy's sheer will seems unbeatable. But tragedy awaits these determined hunters-now friends-and Billy learns that hope can grow out of despair, and that the seeds of the future can come from the scars of the past.
Billy has long dreamt of owning not one, but two, dogs. So when he's finally able to save up enough money for two pups to call his own-Old Dan and Little Ann-he's ecstatic. It doesn't matter that times are tough; together they'll roam the hills of the Ozarks.
Soon Billy and his hounds become the finest hunting team in the valley. Stories of their great achievements spread throughout the region, and the combination of Old Dan's brawn, Little Ann's brains, and Billy's sheer will seems unbeatable. But tragedy awaits these determined hunters-now friends-and Billy learns that hope can grow out of despair, and that the seeds of the future can come from the scars of the past.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for Where the Red Fern Grows
A Top 100 Children's Novel, School Library Journal
A Must-Read for Kids 9 to 14, NPR
A Great American Read's Selection (PBS)
Winner of Multiple State Awards
Over 14 million copies in print!
"One of the great classics of children's literature . . . Any child who doesn't get to read this beloved and powerfully emotional book has missed out on an important piece of childhood for the last 40-plus years." -Common Sense Media
"A rewarding book . . . [with] careful, precise observation, all of it rightly phrased....Very touching." -The New York Times Book Review
"A book of unadorned naturalness." -Kirkus Reviews
"An exciting tale of love and adventure you'll never forget." -School Library Journal
"Written with so much feeling and sentiment that adults as well as children are drawn [in] with a passion." -Arizona Daily Star
"It's a story about a young boy and his two hunting dogs and . . . I can't even go on without getting a little misty." -The Huffington Post
"We tear up just thinking about it." -Time on the film adaptation
A Top 100 Children's Novel, School Library Journal
A Must-Read for Kids 9 to 14, NPR
A Great American Read's Selection (PBS)
Winner of Multiple State Awards
Over 14 million copies in print!
"One of the great classics of children's literature . . . Any child who doesn't get to read this beloved and powerfully emotional book has missed out on an important piece of childhood for the last 40-plus years." -Common Sense Media
"A rewarding book . . . [with] careful, precise observation, all of it rightly phrased....Very touching." -The New York Times Book Review
"A book of unadorned naturalness." -Kirkus Reviews
"An exciting tale of love and adventure you'll never forget." -School Library Journal
"Written with so much feeling and sentiment that adults as well as children are drawn [in] with a passion." -Arizona Daily Star
"It's a story about a young boy and his two hunting dogs and . . . I can't even go on without getting a little misty." -The Huffington Post
"We tear up just thinking about it." -Time on the film adaptation
Readers Top Reviews
RonnieBev Horvath
A good story aimed at early teens. However, as good as the author made the descriptions, a lot of the countryside was southern American (Ozarks), so was not familiar with the flora or some of the fauna. Some of the chapters became repetitive in some ways so was almost relieved when the end of the book arrived! Nonetheless, a good enough yarn of turn of the century (20th) USA.
Eleni of Troy.Ron
A young boy's dream is to be able to own two coon hunting dogs. his family cannot help him so he goes through some unbelievable hardship does all kinds of odd jobs to earn and save the money for his dogs and in the end he does it! He buys the two puppies who grow up to become his. friends for life. But... tragedy strikes and the dogs die. He and his family grieve for the dogs. There comes the day when the family are moving for good to the town. The boy and the family go to say their last farewell to the dogs and are surprised to see that a Red Fern has grown next to the dogs' grave. According to the legend, the angels have come down and planted the Red Fern. This is where I shed a few tears.
WennelEleni of Tr
I read this book to my class of sixth graders many years ago, probably about thirty, when a teacher in Canada. It taught them about another part of the world, its customs and geography. It made them think about poverty, tenacity, love, responsibility, determination, bravery. The main character is a young boy who is devoted to his dogs. It is a beautiful story and it holds the reader's attention completely. I read this after lunch, one or two chapters at a time and when I had to stop to get on with other areas of the curriculum , it was always to loud complaints. When the final page was read, sadly, one of my girls jumped up and ran to the restroom sobbing. That's the king of novel this is.
CSWennelEleni of
Wilson Rawls’ classic, timeless story of a young boy’s coming-of-age is heartbreaking, sentimental, and utterly charming. An ode to love, family and the beauty of nature. Set in the Ozarks, northeastern Oklahoma, Billy wants nothing more than to have a puppy, or to be more specific, two puppies. He wants to train them for hunting, although his mother has forbidden him to use or own a gun until he is 21 or older. For two years he waits, collecting enough money doing whatever jobs he can, he finally raises enough for two puppies who are delivered via train to the town closest to where he lives. "I knelt down and gathered them into my arms. I buried my face between their wiggling bodies and cried. The stationmaster, sensing something more than two dogs and a boy, waited in silence." My Dad didn’t grow up in the Ozarks, but he trapped animals as a young boy to raise money for a dog. Selling skins to Sears Roebuck & Co. was enough then to fulfill that dream and then later to get him enough money to fly enough hours to be conscripted (after being declared 4F) to train pilots at Americus, Georgia. When he was able to return to being a civilian pilot, the first thing he did with the money he saved was to buy another dog. On multiple levels, I felt this story to be so close to my father’s, both coming from rural, impoverished areas. “Men, said Mr. Kyle, “people have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never knows what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love – the deepest kind of love.” This is such a wonderful story; I highly recommend you read it. Re-read it, if you read it as a child.
Short Excerpt Teaser
When I left my office that beautiful spring day, I had no idea what was in store for me. To begin with, everything was too perfect for anything unusual to happen. It was one of those days when a man feels good, feels like speaking to his neighbor, is glad to live in a country like ours, and proud of his government. You know what I mean, one of those rare days when everything is right and nothing is wrong.
I was walking along whistling when I heard the dogfight. At first I paid no attention to it. After all it wasn't anything to get excited about, just another dogfight in a residential section.
As the sound of the fight grew nearer, I could tell there were quite a few dogs mixed up in it. They boiled out of an alley, turned, and headed straight toward me. Not wanting to get bitten or run over, I moved over to the edge of the sidewalk.
I could see that all the dogs were fighting one. About twenty-five feet from me they caught him and down he went. I felt sorry for the unfortunate one. I knew if something wasn't done quickly the sanitation department would have to pick up a dead dog.
I was trying to make up my mind to help when I got a surprise. Up out of that snarling, growling, slashing mass reared an old redbone hound. For a second I saw him. I caught my breath. I couldn't believe what I had seen.
Twisting and slashing, he fought his way through the pack and backed up under the low branches of a hedge. Growling and snarling, they formed a halfmoon circle around him. A big bird dog, bolder than the others, darted in. The hedge shook as he tangled with the hound. He came out so fast he fell over backwards. I saw that his right ear was split wide open. It was too much for him and he took off down the street, squalling like a scalded cat.
A big ugly cur tried his luck. He didn't get off so easy. He came out with his left shoulder laid open to the bone. He sat down on his rear and let the world know that he had been hurt.
By this time, my fighting blood was boiling. It's hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight against such odds, especially if that man has memories in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen the time when an old hound like that had given his life so that I might live.
Taking off my coat, I waded in. My yelling and scolding didn't have much effect, but the swinging coat did. The dogs scattered and left.
Down on my knees, I peered back under the hedge. The hound was still mad. He growled at me and showed his teeth. I knew it wasn't his nature to fight a man.
In a soft voice, I started talking to him. "Come on, boy," I said. "It's all right. I'm your friend. Come on now."
The fighting fire slowly left his eyes. He bowed his head and his long, red tail started thumping the ground. I kept coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time, he came to me and laid his head in my hand.
I almost cried at what I saw. His coat was dirty and mud-caked. His skin was stretched drum-tight over his bony frame. The knotty joints of his hips and shoulders stood out a good three inches from his body. I could tell he was starved.
I couldn't figure it out. He didn't belong in town. He was far out of place with the boxers, poodles, bird dogs, and other breeds of town dogs. He belonged in the country. He was a hunting hound.
I raised one of his paws. There I read the story. The pads were worn down slick as the rind on an apple. I knew he had come a long way, and no doubt had a long way to go. Around his neck was a crude collar. On closer inspection, I saw it had been made from a piece of check-line leather. Two holes had been punched in each end and the ends were laced together with bailing wire.
As I turned the collar with my finger, I saw something else. There, scratched deep in the tough leather, was the name "Buddie." I guessed that the crude, scribbly letters had probably been written by a little boy.
It's strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man's mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you've seen, or something you've heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.
What I saw in the warm gray eyes of the friendly old hound brought back wonderful memories. To show my gratitude, I took hold of his collar and said, "Come on, boy, let's go home and get something to eat."
He seemed to understand that he had found a friend. He came willingly.
I gave him a bath and rubbed all the soreness from his muscles. He drank quarts of warm milk and ate all the meat I had in the house. I hurried down to th...
I was walking along whistling when I heard the dogfight. At first I paid no attention to it. After all it wasn't anything to get excited about, just another dogfight in a residential section.
As the sound of the fight grew nearer, I could tell there were quite a few dogs mixed up in it. They boiled out of an alley, turned, and headed straight toward me. Not wanting to get bitten or run over, I moved over to the edge of the sidewalk.
I could see that all the dogs were fighting one. About twenty-five feet from me they caught him and down he went. I felt sorry for the unfortunate one. I knew if something wasn't done quickly the sanitation department would have to pick up a dead dog.
I was trying to make up my mind to help when I got a surprise. Up out of that snarling, growling, slashing mass reared an old redbone hound. For a second I saw him. I caught my breath. I couldn't believe what I had seen.
Twisting and slashing, he fought his way through the pack and backed up under the low branches of a hedge. Growling and snarling, they formed a halfmoon circle around him. A big bird dog, bolder than the others, darted in. The hedge shook as he tangled with the hound. He came out so fast he fell over backwards. I saw that his right ear was split wide open. It was too much for him and he took off down the street, squalling like a scalded cat.
A big ugly cur tried his luck. He didn't get off so easy. He came out with his left shoulder laid open to the bone. He sat down on his rear and let the world know that he had been hurt.
By this time, my fighting blood was boiling. It's hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight against such odds, especially if that man has memories in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen the time when an old hound like that had given his life so that I might live.
Taking off my coat, I waded in. My yelling and scolding didn't have much effect, but the swinging coat did. The dogs scattered and left.
Down on my knees, I peered back under the hedge. The hound was still mad. He growled at me and showed his teeth. I knew it wasn't his nature to fight a man.
In a soft voice, I started talking to him. "Come on, boy," I said. "It's all right. I'm your friend. Come on now."
The fighting fire slowly left his eyes. He bowed his head and his long, red tail started thumping the ground. I kept coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time, he came to me and laid his head in my hand.
I almost cried at what I saw. His coat was dirty and mud-caked. His skin was stretched drum-tight over his bony frame. The knotty joints of his hips and shoulders stood out a good three inches from his body. I could tell he was starved.
I couldn't figure it out. He didn't belong in town. He was far out of place with the boxers, poodles, bird dogs, and other breeds of town dogs. He belonged in the country. He was a hunting hound.
I raised one of his paws. There I read the story. The pads were worn down slick as the rind on an apple. I knew he had come a long way, and no doubt had a long way to go. Around his neck was a crude collar. On closer inspection, I saw it had been made from a piece of check-line leather. Two holes had been punched in each end and the ends were laced together with bailing wire.
As I turned the collar with my finger, I saw something else. There, scratched deep in the tough leather, was the name "Buddie." I guessed that the crude, scribbly letters had probably been written by a little boy.
It's strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man's mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you've seen, or something you've heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.
What I saw in the warm gray eyes of the friendly old hound brought back wonderful memories. To show my gratitude, I took hold of his collar and said, "Come on, boy, let's go home and get something to eat."
He seemed to understand that he had found a friend. He came willingly.
I gave him a bath and rubbed all the soreness from his muscles. He drank quarts of warm milk and ate all the meat I had in the house. I hurried down to th...
