Roar!: A Noisy Counting Bookby Pamela Duncan Edwards, Henry Cole
A lion cub wants to play with the other animals he meetsone red monkey, two pink flamingos, three orange warthogs, and so onbut his loud roar keeps scaring them away. Finally, he meets the right playmates: nine other roaring cubs. The pleasing illustrations depict the wildlife with humor, but the verse is often awkward and uninspired. See more details below
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A lion cub wants to play with the other animals he meetsone red monkey, two pink flamingos, three orange warthogs, and so onbut his loud roar keeps scaring them away. Finally, he meets the right playmates: nine other roaring cubs. The pleasing illustrations depict the wildlife with humor, but the verse is often awkward and uninspired.
- HarperCollins Publishers
- Publication date:
- Edition description:
- 1 ED
- Sales rank:
- Product dimensions:
- 10.00(w) x 10.00(h) x 0.25(d)
- Age Range:
- 4 - 8 Years
Meet the Author
Pamela Duncan Edwards is the author of numerous popular picture books, including Livingstone Mouse; Roar! A Noisy Counting Book; Some Smug Slug; The Worrywarts; Clara Caterpillar; Wake-Up Kisses; Rosie's Roses; The Leprechaun's Gold; and Gigi and Lulu's Gigantic Fight, all illustrated by Henry Cole; as well as Dear Tooth Fairy, illustrated by Marie-Louise Fitzpatrick; McGillycuddy Could!, illustrated by Sue Porter; and The Neat Line, illustrated by Diana Cain Bluthenthal. She lives in Virginia.
Henry Cole is the celebrated illustrator of many books for children, including the Bad Boys series by Margie Palatini, and is also the author and illustrator of the novel A Nest for Celeste.
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Read an Excerpt
The Hound of Culann
The day was chill, the sounds of the sea lost and mournful beyond the fog-cloaked moors that ran south toward the cliffs. Conor raised his head and sniffed the damp air.
"Smells like rain."
Fergus, riding a huge roan stallion, pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and grunted. "What do you expect? It's winter."
Catlin, riding behind with Tully, sniffed loudly. Tully grinned at her. "Say something," he said.
"You jusd wand do hear me talk like dis. I cand helb it. It's by dose."
Tully laughed, but when he saw the miserable expression on her face, he sobered. "It's not getting any better?"
She shook her head. "Gedding worse."
Fergus snorted. "Of course it is, lad. We're dragging the poor girl all over this forsaken wilderness, when she needs rest, a warm fire, and . . . and chicken soup!"
Conor stared at him. "Chicken soup?"
Fergus reddened. "I can make chicken soup."
Tully said, "Sure. But first you have to find a chicken." He waved at the bleak gray landscape that stretched out on all sides. "No chickens here. Barely any grass. Maybe you could make grass soup.
Conor tugged on the reins of his own gray mare and brought her to a halt. "Look," he said. "I'm sorry. I know it's hard. But we've got to find that magician. You said it yourself, Tully. There's a curse on the Land. And with Galen and Blas gone, there's nobody to help us. Unless you've changed your mind about your own powers."
Tully shook his head. "Galen taught me a lot, but nothing like that. I can feel the curse. It's strong, Conor. It's eating away at theLand, at the Alliance, at everything. You're right, we need a real sorcerer, but . . . " He trailed off and stared around, his expression dismal. "All we know about this Myrddin are just rumors. He may not even exist."
"You said you felt something yesterday."
"Something, yes . . . but what, I don't really know."
Fergus snorted again, louder, his mustache quivering. "Most likely your empty belly griping at you, boy. That's what you felt."
Conor sighed as he leaned back in his saddle. "Well, Fergus, what would you have me do? Give up? Go back and watch everything fall apart? You know what's happening. This winter has been the hardest even the Old Women remember. The fields are dying. Sheep going to the wolves. And Diana pecking away at the Alliance, a warrior here, a family there, even a small clan or two. If it keeps on like this, we could lose everything. Everything all of us have worked for. Is that what you want?"
Fergus looked away. "I still say . . . " He spat suddenly. "Magicians. Pah. Maybe we'd do better to talk to those warriors who've decided they like the Roman strumpet so well. That seems like a better idea than wandering around in this damned wilderness without so much as a sniff of your sorcerer."
"Diana was wiser than I gave her credit for. She stored the largest part of her harvests, and now she has food to offer as bribes. I should have paid attention. But I didn't--and now it's too late."
"Dode be so hard on yourself, Codor," Catlin said. "How could you hab known?"
"I should have known! Isn't that what a leader is supposed to do? Know things? Especially when it's the welfare of his people at stake?" Suddenly his shoulders slumped. "Or maybe it's just that I'm not much of a leader . . . "
Tully rammed his heels into the ribs of his mount and came abreast of Conor. "Don't talk like that. I told you, it's magic! There is a curse, no matter what this old bag of farts says. And you're not going to fix it by talking." He turned and glared at Fergus, whose mustache was quivering even more strongly.
"Bag of farts am I, you little swamp rat? Maybe I'll stick you into a bag . . . " He raised one brawny arm.
"Hold on!" Conor said. "Look at us. Fighting like children." He leaned over and slapped Fergus on the back. "Calm down, you old goat. It's this damned weather. It's got us all on edge. But we won't solve anything by brawling among ourselves."
This time Fergus's snort sounded more like the crack of a whip, but he lowered his arm. "Well, you may be right. For once."
"Look. We're all cold and tired, and Catlin's sick. As soon as we find a likely spot, we'll lie up and make camp. Someplace out of the wind. Get some rest, get some food in our bellies, and we'll all feel better."
Fergus made a grumbling noise deep in his chest, but after a moment he nodded. "Up ahead there, that rise. It looks like there's trees, maybe even a spring."
Conor looked over his shoulder at Catlin. "Hang on, Cat. We'll have you all nice and bundled up in a jiffy."
She sneezed. They set off again. Nobody mentioned the saddle packs on their horses, which had been growing thinner for the past two weeks.
No chicken soup tonight. Maybe stone soup . . .
The land rippled slowly up toward the low hills, growing stonier as they proceeded. To the west the pale white disk of the sun sank lower, becoming a diffuse streak of light. A wind sprang up out of the north, harsh and biting, and bearing a whiff of some foul odor.
Fergus wrinkled his nose. "Nasty . . . "
Conor glanced at him. "It smells like . . . something familiar."
Fergus regarded him sourly. "Have you forgotten already, boy? That's the stink you get when you piss on a fire. Wet, burned wood. You smelled it in the ruins of your father's keep."Roar!. Copyright � by Pamela Edwards. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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