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Newbery Medal-winning author Beverly Cleary ramps up the humor and adventure in the second book in the Mouse series.
With a motorcycle to rev and the open road to see, Ralph S. Mouse is itching to run away from his overprotective family. But once he escapes to a summer campground nearby, the horrors of the wild make him doubt his plan. Angry cats, scary watchdogs, and grouchy gophers are only the half of it! But then he befriends Garf, a sad and friendless boy at the camp. Though he wants desperately to be back home with his relatives, Ralph realizes that he may need to help Garf before he can help himself.
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parents with them so they bought pets.” “You?” asked Ralph. “Me,” said Chum. “I was bought by that grubby girl with freckles. To make a long story short, the doggy hand stuffed me into a hot little cardboard box with a few so-called air holes poked into it, and I spent the rest of the day being jounced around, peeked at, and fed bits of Karmel-Korn.” “Sounds good,” said Ralph. “Maybe to a mouse.” There was a touch of scorn in Chum’s voice. “We rode in a bus to this camp, where a counselor put
did you get that watch? You didn’t happen to steal it, did you? No. You couldn’t. You’re too little.” “That’s right. I’m too little,” agreed Ralph. “But Catso stole it, and I’m trying to return it to its rightful owner.” He told Sam the whole story, explaining why Garf could not return the watch. Sam glanced at Catso and growled, but Catso merely paused in washing his left hind foot to look disdainfully at Sam, who then said to Ralph, “You’re pretty little to be pulling that watch over this
the right kind of boy, a boy sure to like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Since the day Keith had left the hotel, Ralph had longed for crumbs of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A grating, grinding noise came from the works of the grandfather clock. Ralph clapped his paws over his ears. The clock grumbled and groaned and managed to strike the hour. Nine o’clock! The time almost had come. The stroke of nine was followed by the slow sad notes of music that lingered and died mysteriously
of the steps. “Hi,” said Ralph, who was able to talk to animals and to any human being who loved speed and motorcycles and who understood that the only way to make a miniature motorcycle go was to make a sputtering noise that sounded like a big motorcycle. “Why, hello there, young fellow,” said Matt. “Just where do you think you’re going?” “I’m running away,” said Ralph. “On my motorcycle.” “You don’t say!” exclaimed Matt. “Yes. I’ve had enough of this place,” said Ralph. “I’m going
small weathered building shaded by an arbor of grapevines. At the corner of the building he found a clump of bamboo, which offered the possibility of shelter. The fallen leaves and husks of the young bamboo shoots were broad and smooth, and the dried edges curled. He laid his motorcycle at the foot of the bamboo and pulled a husk over it. The edges curled around it so that it was hidden completely. He put his helmet under another husk, and too tired to scrounge for food, Ralph crawled under a