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Mary Poppins Opens the Door

Overview

Mary Poppins returns, falling from the sky like a shooting star! Soon Mary and the kids are off on a new round of marvelous adventures. A visit to Mr. Twigley’s music box-filled attic, an encounter with the Marble Boy, a ride on Miss Calico’s enchanted candy canes—all part of an average day out with the world’s most beloved nanny.

Mary Poppins returns to the Banks family in a rocket and involves the Banks children in more magical ...

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Mary Poppins Opens the Door

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Overview

Mary Poppins returns, falling from the sky like a shooting star! Soon Mary and the kids are off on a new round of marvelous adventures. A visit to Mr. Twigley’s music box-filled attic, an encounter with the Marble Boy, a ride on Miss Calico’s enchanted candy canes—all part of an average day out with the world’s most beloved nanny.

Mary Poppins returns to the Banks family in a rocket and involves the Banks children in more magical adventures including those with Peppermint Horses, the Marble Boy, and the Cat that Looked at the King.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"I, who hailed her [earlier] as a 'delightful new character who has come to stay' think Mary Poppins Opens the Door is even better--so rich it is in nursery lore, so sparkling with magic, so warmly understanding of children."--The Horn Book
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780544439580
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 5/5/2015
  • Series: Mary Poppins Series
  • Pages: 288
  • Age range: 9 - 12 Years

Meet the Author

P. L. Travers (1899-1996) was a drama critic, travel essayist, reviewer, lecturer, and the creator of Mary Poppins. Ms. Travers wrote several other books for adults and children, but it is for the character of Mary Poppins that she is best remembered.

MARY SHEPARD (1910-2000) was the daughter of Ernest Shepard, illustrator of the Winnie the Pooh books and The Wind in the Willows. She illustrated P. L. Travers's Mary Poppins books for more than fifty years.

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Read an Excerpt


The Fifth of ­November
  
 
It was one of those bleak and chilly mornings that remind you winter is coming. Cherry-Tree Lane was quiet and still. The mist hung over the Park like a shadow. All the houses looked exactly alike as the grey fog wrapped them round. Admiral Boom’s flagstaff, with the telescope at the top of it, had entirely ­disappeared.
 
           The Milkman, as he turned into the Lane, could hardly see his ­way.
 
           “Milk Be­-­l­-­o­-­o­-­ow!” he called, outside the Admiral’s door. And his voice sounded so queer and hollow that it gave him quite a ­fright.
 
           “I’ll go ’ome till the fog lifts,” he said to himself. “’Ere! Look where you’re goin’!” he went on, as a shape loomed suddenly out of the mist and bumped against his ­shoulder.
 
           “Bumble, bumble, bum­-­bur­-­um­-­bumble,” said a gentle, muffled ­voice.
 
           “Oh, it’s you!” said the Milkman, with a sigh of ­relief.
 
           “Bumble,” remarked the Sweep again. He was holding his brushes in front of his face to keep his moustache ­dry.
 
           “Out early, aren’t you?” the Milkman ­said.
    The Sweep gave a jerk of his black thumb towards Miss Lark’s ­house.
 
           “Had to do the chimbley before the dogs had breakfast. In case the soot gave them a cough,” he ­explained.
 
           The Milkman laughed rudely. For that was what everybody did when Miss Lark’s two dogs were ­men­tioned.
 
           The mist went wreathing through the air. There was not a sound in the ­Lane.
 
           “Ugh!” said the Milkman, shivering. “This quiet gives me the ­’Orrors!”
 
           And as he said that, the Lane woke up. A sudden roar came from one of the houses and the sound of stamping ­feet.
 
           “That’s Number Seventeen!” said the Sweep. “Excuse me, old chap. I think I’m needed.” He cautiously felt his way to the gate and went up the garden ­path. . . .
 
 
 
Inside the house, Mr. Banks was marching up and down, kicking the hall ­furniture.
 
           “I’ve had about all I can stand!” he shouted, waving his arms ­wildly.
 
           “You keep on saying that,” Mrs. Banks cried. “But you won’t tell me what’s the matter.” She looked at Mr. Banks ­anxiously.
AMILY: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'" 
           “Everything’s the matter!” he roared. “Look at this!” He waggled his right foot at her. “And this!” he went on, as he waggled his ­left.
 
           Mrs. Banks peered closely at the feet. She was rather short­-­sighted and the hall was ­misty.
 
           “I—er—don’t see anything wrong,” she began ­timidly.
 
           “Of course you don’t!” he said, sarcastically. “It’s only imagination, of course, that makes me think Robertson Ay has given me one black shoe and one brown!” And again he waggled his ­feet.
 
           “Oh!” said Mrs. Banks hurriedly. For now she saw clearly what the trouble ­was.
 
           “You may well say ‘Oh!’ So will Robertson Ay when I give him the sack ­tonight.”
 
           “It’s not his fault, Daddy!” cried Jane, from the stairs. “He couldn’t see—because of the fog. Besides, he’s not ­strong.”
 
           “He’s strong enough to make my life a misery!” said Mr. Banks ­angrily.
 
           “He needs rest, Daddy!” Michael reminded him, hurrying down after ­Jane.
 
           “He’ll get it!” promised Mr. Banks, as he snatched up his bag. “When I think of the things I could have done if I hadn’t gone and got married! Lived alone in a Cave, perhaps. Or I might have gone Round the ­World.”
 
           “And what would we have done, then?” asked ­Michael.
 
           “You would have had to fend for yourselves. And serve you right! Where’s my ­overcoat?”
 
           “You have it on, George,” said Mrs. Banks, ­meekly.
 
           “Yes!” he retorted. “And only one button! But anything’s good enough for me! I’m only the man who Pays the Bills. I shall not be home for ­dinner.”
 
           A wail of protest went up from the ­children.
 
           “But it’s Guy Fawkes’ Day,” wheedled Mrs. Banks. “And you so good at letting off ­rockets.”
 
           “No rockets for me!” cried Mr. Banks. “Nothing but trouble from morning till night!” He shook Mrs. Banks’ hand from his arm and dashed out of the ­house.
 
           “Shake, sir!” said the Sweep in a friendly voice as Mr. Banks knocked into him, “It’s lucky, you know, to shake hands with a ­Sweep.”
 
           “Away, away!” said Mr. Banks wildly. “This is not my lucky ­day!”
 
           The Sweep looked after him for a moment. Then he smiled to himself and rang the door­-­bell. . . .
 
 
“He doesn’t mean it, does he, Mother? He will come home for the fireworks!” Jane and Michael rushed at Mrs. Banks and tugged at her ­skirt.
 
           “Oh, I can’t promise anything, children!” she sighed, as she looked at her face in the front hall ­mirror.
 
           And she thought to herself—Yes, I’m getting thinner. One of my dimples has gone already and soon I shall lose the second. No one will look at me any more. And it’s all her fault!
 
           By her, Mrs. Banks meant Mary Poppins, who had been the children’s nurse. As long as Mary Poppins was in the house, everything had gone smoothly. But since that day when she had left them—so suddenly and without a Word of Warning—the family had gone from Bad to ­Worse.
 
           Here am I, thought Mrs. Banks miserably, with five wild children and no one to help me. I’ve advertised. I’ve asked my friends. But nothing seems to happen. And George is getting crosser and crosser; and Annabel’s teething; and Jane and Michael and the Twins are so naughty, not to mention that awful Income Tax——
 
           She watched a tear run over the spot where the dimple had once ­been.
 
           “It’s no good,” she said, with sudden decision. “I shall have to send for Miss ­Andrew.”
 
           A cry went up from all four children. Away in the Nursery, Annabel screamed. For Miss Andrew had once been their Father’s governess and they knew how frightful she ­was.
 
           “I won’t speak to her!” shouted Jane, in a ­rage.
 
        “I’ll spit on her shoes if she comes!” threatened ­Michael.
 
           “No, no!” wailed John and Barbara ­miserably.
 
           Mrs. Banks clapped her hands to her ears. “Children, have mercy!” she cried in ­despair.
 
           “Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Ellen the housemaid, as she tapped Mrs. Banks on the shoulder. “The Sweep is ’ere for the Drawing­-­room Chimbley. But I warn you, ma’am, it’s my Day Out! And I can’t clean up after ’im. So there!” She blew her nose with a trumpeting ­sound.
 
           “Excuse me!” said the Sweep cheerfully, as he dragged in his bags and ­brushes.
 
           “’Oo’s that?” came the voice of Mrs. Brill as she hurried up from the kitchen. “The Sweep? On Baking Day? No, you don’t! I’m sorry to give you notice, ma’am. But if that Hottentot goes into the chimney, I shall go out of the ­door.”
 
           Mrs. Banks glanced round ­desperately.
 
           “I didn’t ask him to come!” she declared. “I don’t even know if the chimney wants ­sweeping!”
 
           “A chimbley’s always glad of a brush.” The Sweep stepped calmly into the Drawing­-­room and began to spread out his ­sheet.
 
           Mrs. Banks looked nervously at Mrs. Brill. “Perhaps Robertson Ay could help—” she ­began.
 
           “Robertson is asleep in the pantry, wrapped in your best lace shawl. And nothing will wake him,” said Mrs. Brill, “but the sound of the Last Trombone. So, if you please, I’ll be packing my bag. ’Ow! Let me go, you ­Hindoo!”
 
           For the Sweep had seized Mrs. Brill’s hand and was shaking it vigorously. A reluctant smile spread over her ­face.
 
           “Well—just this once!” she remarked cheerfully. And she went down the kitchen ­stairs.
 
           The Sweep turned to Ellen with a ­grin.
 
           “Don’t touch me, you black heathen!” she screamed in a terrified voice. But he took her hand in a firm grip and she, too, began to smile. “Well, no messing up the carpet!” she warned him, and hurried off to her ­work.
 
           “Shake!” said the Sweep, as he turned to the children. “It’s sure to bring you luck!” He left a black mark on each of their palms and they all felt suddenly ­better.
 
           Then he put out his hand to Mrs. Banks. And as she took his warm black fingers her courage came flowing ­back.
 
           “We must make the best of things, darlings,” she said. “I shall advertise for another nurse. And perhaps something good will ­happen.”
 
           Jane and Michael sighed with relief. At least she was not going to send for Miss ­Andrew.
 
           “What do you do when you need luck?” asked Jane, as she followed the Sweep to the Drawing­-­room.
 
        “Oh, I just shake ’ands with meself,” he said, cheerfully, pushing his brush up the ­chimney.
 
           All day long the children watched him and argued over who should hand him the brushes. Now and again Mrs. Banks came in, to complain of the noise and hurry the ­Sweep.
 
           And all day long, beyond the windows, the mist crept through the Lane. Every sound was muffled. The birds were gone. Except for an old and moulting Starling who kept on peering through the cracks in the blinds as if he were looking for ­someone.
 
           At last the Sweep crept out of the chimney and smiled at his ­handiwork.

Copyright 1943 by P. L. ­Travers
Copyright renewed 1971 by P. L. ­Travers
 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the ­publisher.
 
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887­-­6777.

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Table of Contents


Contents
The Fifth of ­November          
Mr. Twigley’s ­Wishes           
The Cat That Looked at a ­King             
The Marble ­Boy    
Peppermint ­Horses
High ­Tide               
Happy Ever ­After 
The Other ­Door     
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