VI Международный конкурс научно-исследовательских и творческих работ учащихся

Старт в науке

Приложение 1

Таблица №1

Анализ книги «Black Beauty» Анны Съюэл

Герой о себе и о своих друзьях

Хорошее отношение людей к героям книги

Плохое отношение людей к героям книги

Чувства и мысли живоных

Потеря свободы, отношение героев к ней

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5

 I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie

Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high but that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at the top.

One day I was loaded more than usual, and part of the road was a steep uphill. I used all my strength, but I could not get on, and was obliged continually to stop. This did not please my driver, and he laid his whip on badly. "Get on, you lazy fellow," he said, "or I'll make you."

 My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was "Rob Roy"; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterward.

But when it came to breaking in, that was a bad time for me; several men came to catch me, and when at last they closed me in at one corner of the field, one caught me by the forelock, another caught me by the nose and held it so tight I could hardly draw my breath; then another took my under jaw in his hard hand and wrenched my mouth open, and so by force they got on the halter and the bar into my mouth; then one dragged me along by the halter, another flogging behind, and this was the first experience I had of men's kindness; it was all force. They did not give me a chance to know what they wanted. I was high bred and had a great deal of spirit, and was very wild, no doubt, and gave them, I dare say, plenty of trouble, but then it was dreadful to be shut up in a stall day after day instead of having my liberty, and I fretted and pined and wanted to get loose. You know yourself it's bad enough when you have a kind master and plenty of coaxing, but there was nothing of that sort for me

I was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead.

my coat was brushed every day till it shone like a rook's wing

His son was a strong, tall, bold man; they called him Samson,...There was no gentleness in him, as there was in his father, but only hardness, a hard voice, a hard eye, a hard hand; and I felt from the first that what he wanted was to wear all the spirit out of me, and just make me into a quiet, humble, obedient piece of horseflesh. 'Horseflesh'! Yes, that is all that he thought about," and Ginger stamped her foot as if the very thought of him made her angry.

 I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least they never know each other after they are sold.

John said to me, "Now, Beauty, do your best," and so I did; I wanted no whip nor spur, and for two miles I galloped as fast as I could lay my feet to the ground; I don't believe that my old grandfather, who won the race at Newmarket, could have gone faster

"At last, just as the sun went down, I saw the old master come out with a sieve in his hand. He was a very fine old gentleman with quite white hair, but his voice was what I should know him by among a thousand. It was not high, nor yet low, but full, and clear, and kind, and when he gave orders it was so steady and decided that every one knew, both horses and men, that he expected to be obeyed. ......just at the door stood Samson. I laid my ears back and snapped at him. 'Stand back,' said the master, 'and keep out of her way; you've done a bad day's work for this filly.' He growled out something about a vicious brute. 'Hark ye,' said the father, 'a bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse. ... He stood by all the time I was eating, stroking me and talking to the man. 'If a high-mettled creature like this,' said he, 'can't be broken by fair means, she will never be good for anything.' 

One day he had worked me hard in every way he could, and when I lay down I was tired, and miserable, and angry; it all seemed so hard. The next morning he came for me early, and ran me round again for a long time. I had scarcely had an hour's rest, when he came again for me with a saddle and bridle and a new kind of bit. .. The new bit was very painful, and I reared up suddenly,which angered him still more, and he began to flog me. I felt my whole spirit set against him, and I began to kick, and plunge, and rear as I had never done before, and we had a regular fight; for a long time he stuck to the saddle and punished me cruelly with his whip and spurs, but my blood was thoroughly up..... At last after a terrible struggle I threw him off backward.

Again I started the heavy load, and struggled on a few yards; again the whip came down, and again I struggled forward. The pain of that great cart whip was sharp, but my mind was hurt quite as much as my poor sides. To be punished and abused when I was doing my very best was so hard it took the heart out of me. A third time he was flogging me cruelly.

 In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose......As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow that he was a favorite with every one.

Here we saw a cart heavily laden with bricks; the wheels had stuck fast in the stiff mud of some deep ruts, and the carter was shouting and flogging the two horses unmercifully. Joe pulled up. It was a sad sight. There were the two horses straining and struggling with all their might to drag the cart out, but they could not move it; the sweat streamed from their legs and flanks, their sides heaved, and every muscle was strained, while the man, fiercely pulling at the head of the fore horse, swore and lashed most brutally.

A short time after this a cart with a dead horse in it passed our cab-stand. The head hung out of the cart-tail, the lifeless tongue was slowly dropping with blood; and the sunken eyes! but I can't speak of them, the sight was too dreadful. It was a chestnut horse with a long, thin neck. I saw a white streak down the forehead. I believe it was Ginger; I hoped it was, for then her troubles would be over. Oh! if men were more merciful they would shoot us before we came to such misery.

 Продолжение таблицы №1

The cob was a strong, well-made, good-tempered horse, and we sometimes had a little chat in the paddock, but of course I could not be so intimate with him as with Ginger, who stood in the same stable.

John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a lady's hair, and he would talk to me a great deal; of course I did not understand all he said,

Ginger's story: I never had any one, horse or man, that was kind to me, or that I cared to please, for in the first place I was taken from my mother ....... none of them cared for me, and I cared for none of them. There was no kind master like yours to look after me, and talk to me, and bring me nice things to eat. The man that had the care of us never gave me a kind word in my life. I do not mean that he ill-used me, but he did not care for us one bit further than to see that we had plenty to eat, and shelter in the winter. A footpath ran through our field, and very often the great boys passing through would fling stones to make us gallop. I was never hit, but one fine young colt was badly cut in the face, and I should think it would be a scar for life. We did not care for them, but of course it made us more wild, and we settled it in our minds that boys were our enemies.

  Willie always speaks to me when he can, and treats me as his special friend. My ladies have promised that I shall never be sold, and so I have nothing to fear; and here my story ends. My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my old friends under the apple-trees.

Ginger: Just then a horse's head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears were laid back, and the eye looked rather ill-tempered. This was a tall chestnut mare, with a long handsome neck. 

     "After that he often came to see me, and when my mouth was healed the other breaker, Job, they called him, went on training me; he was steady and thoughtful, and I soon learned what he wanted."

Boys, you see, think a horse or pony is like a steam-engine or a thrashing-machine, and can go on as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings

We were going along at a good pace, but the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge I felt sure there was something wrong. I dare not go forward, and I made a dead stop

 In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose.

     "Oh! pray do not whip your good horse any more; I am sure he is doing all he can, and the road is very steep; I am sure he is doing his best."

This could not go on; no horse could keep his footing under such circumstances; the pain was too great. I stumbled, and fell with violence on both my knees

"Papa, papa, do take a second cab," said the young girl in a beseeching tone. "I am sure we are wrong, I am sure it is very cruel."

Fire: but he seemed in such a hurry and so frightened himself that he frightened me still more

he is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him.

Приложение 2

Таблица 2

Анализ книги «White Fang» Джека Лондона

Таблица 2

Описание героев книги

Хорошее отношение людей к героям книги

Плохое отношение людей к героям книги

Чувства и мысли героев книг

Потеря свободы, отношение героев к ней

Обычаи и законы героев книги

1

2

3

4

5

6

But his father was a wolf. Wherefore is there in him little dog and much wolf. His fangs be white, and White Fang shall be his name.

And furthermore, such was the strangeness of it, White Fang experienced an unaccountable sensationof pleasure as the hand rubbed back and forth. When he was rolled on his side he ceased to growl, when the fingers pressed and prodded at the base of his ears the pleasurable sensation increased...He was to know fear many times in his dealing with man; yet it was a token of the fearless companionship with man that was ultimately to be his.

In the Wild the time of a mother with her young isshort; but under the dominion of man it is sometimeseven shorter. Thus it was with White Fang. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. A strip of scarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay the debt.

Nevertheless, he made out, sheltering between her legs against the length of her body, five strange little bundles of life ... He was surprised. It was not the first time in his long and successful life that this thing had happened. It had happened many times, yet each time it was as fresh a surprise as ever to him... He was behaving as a wolf-father should, and manifesting no unholy desire to devour the young lives she had brought into the world.

The life of his body, and of every fibre of his body, thelife that was the very substance of his body and thatwas apart from his own personal life, had yearnedtoward this light and urged his body toward it in thesame way that the cunning chemistry of a plant urgesit toward the sun...The light drew them as if they were plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the light as a necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled blindly and chemically, like the tendrils of a vine.

White Fang learned rapidly the ways of the camp. He knew the injustice and greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be eaten. He came to know that men were more just, children more cruel, and women more kindly and more likely to toss him a bit of meat or bone.

Their hair already betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf; while he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was the one little grey cub of the litter.

Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redeemingWhite Fang—or rather, of redeeming mankind fromthe wrong it had done White Fang. It was a matter of principle and conscience. He felt that the ill done White Fang was a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid. So he went out of his way to be especially kind to the Fighting Wolf. Each day Weedon Scott made it a point to caress and pet White Fang, and to do it at length.

And White Fang was a beating. His hand was heavy. Every blow was shrewd to hurt; and he delivered a multitude of blows. Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this could not last for ever. One or the other must give over, and that one was White Fang.

His mate looked at him anxiously. Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening; but in her instinct, which was the experience of all the mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny.

He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no matter what the circumstance, must hedare to bite the god who was lord and master overhim; the body of the lord and master was sacred, notto be defiled by the teeth of such as he.

He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat-killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat.

“Won’t come to the hand that’s fed ’m all these months,” the dog-musher muttered resentfully.
“And you—you ain’t never fed ’m after them first days of gettin’ acquainted.

He had not been made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of men. And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated. Men stared at him, poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then laughed at him.
They were his environment, these men, and they were moulding the clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by Nature.

One Eye watching, felt a sudden moistness in his mouth and a drooling of saliva, involuntary, excited by the living meat that was spreading itself like a repast before him.

There was something calling to him out there in theopen. His mother heard it too. But she heard also that other and louder call, the call of the fire and of man—the call which has been given alone of all animals to the wolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are brothers. Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the physical restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her.

And so it came that White Fang learned that the rightto punish was something the gods reserved forthemselves and denied to the lesser creatures underthem.

He could make a louder rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much more terrible than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow-cub over with a cunning paw-stroke. And it was he that first gripped another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws tight-clenched.

He had managed to get the muzzle in between thejaws on one side, and was trying to get it out betweenthe jaws on the other side.This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening the jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White Fang’s mangled neck... “You’ve forfeited your rights to own that dog,” was the rejoinder.
“Are you going to take the money? or do I have to hit you again?”

He was exhibited as “the Fighting Wolf,” and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to sleep, he was stirred up by a sharp stick—so that the audience might get its money’s worth. In order to make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time.

In his insistent crawling toward the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge administered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled him over and over with swift, calculating stroke. Thus he learned hurt; and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not incurring the risk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dodging and by retreating.

Out of this pack-persecution he learned two important things: how to take care of himself in a mass-fight against him—and how, on a single dog, to inflict the greatest amount of damage in the briefest space of time. To keep one’s feet in the midst of the hostile mass meant life, and this he learnt well.

A part-grown puppy, somewhat larger and older than he, came toward him slowly, with ostentatious and belligerent importance. The puppy’s name, as White Fang was afterward to hear him called, was Lip-lip. He had had experience in puppy fights and was already something of a bully.

“I told you it was hopeless, Matt,” Scott said in adiscouraged voice. “I’ve thought about it off and on, while not wanting tothink of it. As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw open the cylinder, and assured himself of its contents. “Look here, Mr. Scott,” Matt objected; “that dog’s ben through hell. You can’t expect ’m to come out a white an’ shinin’ angel.

It was a savage land, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to the death.

In fashion distantly resembling the way men look upon the gods they create, so looked White Fang upon the man-animals before him. They were superior creatures, of a verity, gods. They were creatures of mastery, possessing all manner of unknown and impossible potencies, overlords of the alive and the not alive—making obey that which moved, imparting movement to that which did not move, and making life, sun-coloured and biting life, to grow out of dead moss and wood. They were fire-makers! They were gods.

But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage. The qualities in his kind that in the beginning made it possible for them to come in to the fires of men, were qualities capable of development. But White Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Kiche, hope for her return, and a hungry yearning for the free life that had been his.

Продолжениетаблицы 2

He obeyed his natural impulses until they ran him counter to some law.
When this had been done a few times, he learned the law and after that observed it.

No one knew his first name, and in general he was known in the country as Beauty Smith. But he was anything save a beauty. To antithesis was due his naming. He was pre-eminently unbeautiful. Nature had been niggardly with him. He was a small man to begin with; and upon his meagre frame was deposited an even more strikingly meagre head.

“Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin’ chance. He ain’t had no chance yet. He’s just come through hell, an’ this is the first time he’s ben loose.

The result was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter’s breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by. It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers of Cherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds.
White Fang’s backers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to one and twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager of fifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively and scornfully.

The cub entertained a great respect for his mother. She could get meat, and she never failed to bring him his share. Further, she was unafraid of things. His mother represented power; and as he grew older he felt this power in the sharper admonishment of her paw; while the reproving nudge of her nose gave place to the slash of her fangs.

White Fang experienced dual feelings. It was distasteful to his instinct. It restrained him, opposed the will of him toward personal liberty. And yet it was not physically painful. On the contrary, it was even pleasant, in a physical way.

In the past White Fang had experienced delayed punishments, and he apprehended that such a one was about to befall him.
How could it be otherwise?
He had committed what was to him sacrilege, sunk his fangs into the holy flesh of a god, and of a white-skinned superior god at that.

Backward, from the apex, his head slanted down to his neck and forward it slanted uncompromisingly to meet a low and remarkably wide forehead.
Beginning here, as though regretting her parsimony, Nature had spread his features with a lavish hand.
His eyes were large, and between them was the distance of two eyes.

But the god talked on interminably. He talked to White Fang as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked softly and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god.

The thumb of circumstance had done its work onlytoo well. By it he had been formed and hardened into theFighting Wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving andunlovable.

He did not know that it was a wolverine, standing outside … The cub was in a frenzy of terror, yet he lay without movement or sound, frozen, petrified into immobility, to all appearances dead.

This jaw gave the impression of ferocious determination. But something lacked. Perhaps it was from excess. Perhaps the jaw was too large. At any rate, it was a lie. Beauty Smith was known far and wide as the weakest of weak-kneed and snivelling cowards.

The god went on talking. In his voice was kindness—something of which White Fang had no experience whatever. And within him it aroused feelings which he had likewise never experienced before. He was aware of a certain strange satisfaction, as though some need were being gratified, as though some void in his being were being filled.

He had to forage for himself, and he foraged well, though he was oft-times a plague to the squaws in consequence. He learned to sneak about camp, to be crafty, to know what was going on everywhere, to see and to hear everything and to reason accordingly, and successfully to devise ways and means of avoiding his implacable persecutor.

He was magnificently terrible. Fully five feet in length, and standing two and one-half feet at the shoulder, he far outweighed a wolf of corresponding size. From his mother he had inherited the heavier proportions of the dog, so that he weighed, without any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety pounds.

Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redeemingWhite Fang—or rather, of redeeming mankind fromthe wrong it had done White Fang. It was a matter of principle and conscience. He felt that the ill done White Fang was a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid. So he went out of his way to be especially kind to the Fighting Wolf. Each day Weedon Scott made it a point to caress and pet White Fang, and to do it at length.

He did not like the man. The feel of him was bad. He sensed the evil in him, and feared the extended hand and the attempts at soft-spoken speech. Because of all this, he hated the man…..White Fang’s feel of Beauty Smith was bad.
From the man’s distorted body and twisted mind, in occult ways, like mists rising from malarial marshes, came emanations of the unhealth within.

Продолжение таблицы 2

He was squatting down on his heels, face to face withWhite Fang and petting him—rubbing at the roots ofthe ears, making long caressing strokes down theneck to the shoulders, tapping the spine gently withthe balls of his fingers.

Grey Beaver had betrayed and forsaken him, but that had no effect upon him. Not for nothing had he surrendered himself body and soul to Grey Beaver. There had been no reservation on White Fang’s part, and the bond was not to be broken easily…..He was wise. But had he been merely wise he would not have gone back to Grey Beaver who had already twice betrayed him. But there was his faithfulness, and he went back to be betrayed yet a third time.

White Fang received the nursing. Judge Scott’s suggestion of a trained nurse was indignantly clamoured down by the girls, who themselves undertook the task. And White Fang won out on the one chance in ten thousand denied him by the surgeon.

He talked softly and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god. He had a feeling of security that was belied by all his experience with men.

Then came the day when the last bandage and thelast plaster cast were taken off. It was a gala day. The master rubbed his ears, and he crooned his love-growl. The master’s wife called him the
“Blessed Wolf,” which name was taken up with acclaim and all the women called him the Blessed Wolf.

As the days went by, the evolution of like into lovewas accelerated. White Fang himself began to grow aware of it, though in his consciousness he knew not what love was. It manifested itself to him as a void in his being—a hungry, aching, yearning void that clamoured to be filled. It was a pain and an unrest; and it received easement only by the touch of the new god’s presence.

Like had been replaced by love. And love was the plummet dropped down into the deeps of him where like had never gone . And responsive out of his deeps had come the new thing—love. That which was given unto him did he return.

The wolf miss for his master. That dam wolf won’t work. Won’t eat. Aint got no spunk left. All the dogs is licking him. Wants to know what has become of you, and I don’t know how to tell him. Mebbe he is going to die.” White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and allowed every dog of the team to thrash him.

White Fang was torn by conflicting feelings, impulses. It seemed he would fly to pieces, so terrible was the control he was exerting, holding together by an unwonted indecision the counter-forces that struggled within him for mastery...Like had been replaced by love.

Приложение 3

Таблица 3

Анализ книги «Into the wild» Эрин Хантер

Описание героев книги

Хорошее отношение людей к героям книги

Плохое отношение людей к героям книги

Чувства и мысли героев книг

Потеря свободы, отношение героев к ней

Обычаи и законы героев книги

1

2

3

4

5

6

Bluekit looked over her shoulder at her own pelt. It was fluffy, not sleek like Moonflower’s, and was dark gray all over, with no stripes.

A pair of young Twolegs came running out of the mist, their faces twisted in fear. Fireheart felt Spottedleaf dive away and turned to see her disappear into the fog. Terrified, Fireheart was left alone with the Twolegs rushing toward him, their feet thundering on the forest floor.... the acrid scent still filled the air, and a strange, choking mist seeped through the branches. Fireheart leaped to his paws and scrambled out of the den. An orange light shone dimly through the trees. Could it be dawn already?
The smell grew stronger, and with a sense of horror Fireheart knew what it was. Fire!

Rusty was confused by Bluestar’s sudden rage, but one glance at the horrified look on Graypaw’s face was enough to tell him he had spoken too freely. Lionheart stepped to his leader’s side. Both warriors loomed over him now. Rusty looked into Bluestar’s threatening stare and his pride dissolved. These were not cozy fireside cats he was dealing with-they were mean, hungry cats who were probably going to finish what Graypaw had started...He flattened his ears and crouched under the golden warrior’s cold stare. His fur prickled uncomfortably. “I am no threat to your Clan,” he mewed, looking down at his trembling paws.

Сat wants to get away from the owners: Rusty found himself enjoying the morning even more than usual, visiting his old haunts with Smudge, sharing words with the cats he had grown up with. Every one of his senses felt supercharged, as if he were poised before a huge jump. As sunhigh approached, Rusty grew more and more impatient to see if Lionheart would really be waiting for him. The idle buzz of meows from his old friends seemed to fade into the background as all his senses strained toward the woods

1. Defend your Clan, even with your life. You may have friendships with cats from other Clans, but your loyalty must remain to your Clan, as one day you may meet them in battle.
2. Do not hunt or trespass on another Clan's territory.
3. Elders, queens, and kits must be fed before apprentices and warriors. Unless they have permission, apprentices may not eat until they have hunted to feed the elders. If any warrior or apprentice is sick or injured, they may eat while the elders, queens, and kits are eating.
4. Prey is killed only to be eaten. Give thanks to StarClan for its life.
5. A kit must be at least six moons old to become an apprentice.
6. Newly appointed warriors will keep a silent vigil for one night after receiving their warrior name.
7. A cat cannot be made deputy without having mentored at least one apprentice.
8. The deputy will become Clan leader when the leader dies, retires or is exiled.
9. After the death or retirement of the deputy, the new deputy must be chosen before moonhigh.
10. A Gathering of all four Clans is held at the full moon during a truce that lasts for the night. There shall be no fighting among Clans at this time.
11. Boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats.
12. No warrior can neglect a kit in pain or danger, even if the kit is from a different Clan.
13. The word of the Clan leader is the warrior code.

I’m Graypaw, by the way, I’m training to be a ThunderClan warrior.

Cinderpelt looked distractedly around the clearing. “I only came back to get some supplies. Now that I don’t have Leafpaw to help me collect fresh herbs, I’m always running low. . . .” Squirrelpaw’s heart lurched. “What happened to her?” Cinderpelt glanced at her, and the pity in her eyes made Squirrelpaw want to turn tail and flee from what she was about to hear. “The Twolegs have been setting traps for us,”

Kitten’s experience because her mom died: With a pang of grief so strong she had to fight for breath, Bluepaw remembered the first time she’d opened her eyes and been startled by her mother’s beauty. How she wished she were back in the nest now, listening to mother’s steady breathing, waiting for her to wake up.

Fireheart froze. There was no time to hide. He knew they had been spotted. The Twoleg called, its cries hard and questioning, and then it stepped out and began to walk slowly toward them. The three cats huddled together as the Twoleg came nearer and nearer. Fireheart heard Sandstorm draw in a trembling breath. He looked up and his belly tightened with terror. The Twoleg was looming over them. They were trapped.

Long-bodied and muscular, Whitestorm stood in front of Rusty and gazed down at him. His white coat was thick and unmarked and his eyes were the yellow of sunbaked sand.

Bright, unnatural lights, sharper than moonshine, blazed against the trunks of the four giant oaks that had guarded this sacred place since the time of the Great Clans. More lights shone from the eyes of huge monsters squatting at the edge of the clearing. The Great Rock—the vast, smooth gray stone where Clan leaders stood to address the Gathering each full moon—looked small and exposed, like a kit crouched on a Thunderpath. Twolegs scurried around the hollow, shouting at one another. A new sound sliced through the air, a screeching, high-pitched whine, and one Twoleg raised a massive shiny forepaw that flashed in the brilliant lights. The Twoleg pressed it against the trunk of the nearest oak, and dust flew out from the tree like blood spraying from a wound. The shiny forepaw howled as it bit viciously into the ancient bark, pushing deeper into the tree’s heart until the Twoleg cried out a warning and the hollow rang with a crack so loud that it drowned the rumbling monsters. The great oak began to lean over, slowly at first, then faster, faster, until it fell crashing to the ground. Its leafless branches clattered as they struck the cold earth, then stilled into deathly silence.

Something stirred inside him, an unwarriorlike feeling he didn’t want: pity. He tried not to dwell on this instinct-he knew his loyalty must be to his Clan-but he couldn’t shake free of it...Firepaw stared at her. He would not be goaded into killing this miserable creature. He felt his muscles relax as curiosity pricked him.

cats caught by the men: “We must get out of here,” the cat was mewing.
Another cat answered from the far side of the nest. “How?
There’s no way out.”
“We can’t just sit here waiting to die!” the first voice
insisted. “There have been other cats here—I can smell them,
and their fear-scent. I don’t know what happened to them,
but whatever it was must have scared their fur off. We’ve got
to get out before we become nothing but stale fear-scent!”

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As they drew nearer, the rumbling grew to a roar, and the stench began to burn Leafpaw’s throat. The cats in front slowed down, jostling together but still keeping closer to
their Clanmates than the other cats. Squirrelpaw pushed forward, and Leafpaw followed until they reached a ditch with steeply sloping sides. Beyond it lay the Thunderpath. “We should get the kits across first.” Firestar led the way into the narrow gully. Leafpaw jumped down beside Sorreltail, her paws slipping on the greasy grass. Monsters roared past in both directions, and she flinched as the earth shook beneath her paws. “Each Clan should take its own chances,” Mudclaw insisted. “RiverClan will cross first,” Hawkfrost eclared. “Not all the warriors are as strong as RiverClan’s,” Leopardstar pointed out. “Firestar is right; we should help the weaker Clans.” “My Clan doesn’t need your help!” hissed Mudclaw. “Besides, it would be chaos! No cat would know whose orders to follow!” “Then why don’t you command us all?” Firestar spat. “No cat commands ShadowClan warriors except me!” Blackstar growled.

It was another kitten, with a thick coat of shaggy gray fur, strong legs, and a broad face

“Dappletail’s dead too. She ate a rabbit that Twolegs had poisoned to get rid of WindClan.”

Smudge scrambled down from the fence and stood in front of Rusty. “Please don’t go, Rusty,” he mewed in alarm. “I might never see you again.”

“And they’d feed me pellets that look like rabbit droppings and soft slop!” Graypaw interrupted. “No way! I can’t think of anything worse than being a kittypet! They’re nothing but Twoleg toys! Eating stuff that doesn’t look like food, making dirt in a box of gravel, sticking their noses outside only when the Twolegs allow them? That’s no life! Out here it’s wild, and it’s free. We come and go as we please.” He finished his speech with a proud spit, then meowed mischievously, “Until you’ve tasted a fresh-killed mouse, you haven’t lived. Have you ever tasted mouse?”

Graypaw let out an impatient hiss. “You must have heard of the four warrior Clans that hunt around here! I belong to ThunderClan. The other Clans are always trying to steal prey from our territory, especially ShadowClan. They’re so fierce they would have ripped you to shreds, no questions asked.”
Graypaw paused to spit angrily and continued: “They come to take prey that is rightfully ours. It’s the job of the ThunderClan warriors to keep them out of our territory. When I’ve finished my training, I’ll be so dangerous, I’ll have the other Clans shaking in their flea-bitten skins. They won’t dare come near us then!”

As Graypaw and Firepaw settled themselves beside the tree stump, a young she-cat crawled out from beneath the ferns. Her coat was ginger, like Firepaw’s, but much paler, with barely visible stripes of darker fur.

“Rats attacked us near the Carrionplace,” Lizardstripe panted. Her fur was bristling and blood dripped from a scratch on her belly. “And we weren’t even hunting them!” Wolfstep added indignantly.

“Clan cats always spend time grooming each other and sharing the news of the day,” Whitestorm told him. “We call it sharing tongues. It is a custom that binds the members of the Clan together.”

“Well, the queens share warrior quarters when they work as warriors, but when they are expecting kits, or nursing them, they stay in a nest near the nursery. The elders have their own place on the other side of the clearing. Come on, I’ll show you.”

A massive dark brown tabby staggered through the gorse tunnel - it was a Tigerclaw….Tigerclaw’s voice was strong and deep.

She glanced furiously at her hind leg, weakened by an old injury on the Thunderpath. Cinderpelt knew only too well the damage that Twoleg mon-
sters could do to cats’ fragile bodies.

“Ravenpaw!” Fireheart sprang forward to give his old friend a welcoming nuzzle. “It's so good to see you, Fireheart!” Ravenpaw nudged him in return.

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Rusty prickled at Lionheart’s dismissive words. “Send me home?” he mewed impatiently. Bluestar’s words had made him glow with pride. She had noticed him; she had been impressed by him. “But I’ve only come here to hunt for a mouse or two. I’m sure there’s enough to go around.” Bluestar had turned her head to acknowledge Lionheart’s words. Now her gaze snapped back to Rusty. Her blue eyes were blazing with anger. “There’s never enough to go around,” she spat. “If you didn’t live such a soft, overfed life, you would know that!”

The she-cat had a broad, almost flat face, and round orange eyes. Her dark gray fur was long and matted into smelly clumps. Her ears were torn and ragged, and her muzzle was traced with the scars of many old battles.

Tawnypelt! The ShadowClan cat’s pelt bristled, and her
eyes were wild with fear.
“The Twolegs are attacking our camp!” she yowled, her
voice echoing over the rock. “They have surrounded us with
their monsters! Please come!”

Squirrelpaw’s fierce desire to return home, to see her Clan and father and mother and sister, washed over her again like a wave, and her paws twitched with the urge to nm back to the forest

Graypaw didn’t take his eyes off the dead cat as he replied. “His spirit may have left to join StarClan, but the Clan will share tongues with Redtail one last time.” “StarClan?” Firepaw echoed. “It’s the tribe of heavenly warriors that watches over all Clan cats. You can e them in Silverpelt.” Firepaw looked confused, so Graypaw explained. “Silverpelt is that thick band of stars you see each night stretching across the sky. Each star is a StarClan warrior. Redtail will be among them tonight.”

The pale gray queen who lay beside him shook her head. Firepaw noticed one of her eyes was clouded and sightless…..

The cat was hit by a car: Bluefur froze. A monster was roaring straight at Snowfur. Without slowing down, it slammed into her body. Bluefur heard the dull thump, then the howl of the monster as it thundered away, leaving Snowfur’s body lying like a wet leaf at the edge of the Thunderpath.

Squirrelpaw’s legs seemed to lose their strength altogether, and she swayed. With a sickening flash of horror, she understood all her dreams of fear and darkness and being trapped in a small space.

“The care of our kits is shared by all of the queens,” meowed Lionheart. “All cats serve the Clan. Loyalty to the Clan is the first law in our warrior code, a lesson you must learn quickly if you wish to stay with us.”

The other elder, a tortoiseshell she-cat with a gray muzzle, meowed in a voice cracked with age….

Can you imagine what that feels like? To be rejected twice? To be a loner when all you tried to do was love? But don't worry, I made them pay. I looked for revenge whenever I could! Why do you think I'm here?

A Clan leader is charged with the responsibility to watch over and manage an entire Clan, maintaining discipline, order, and protection.

Firepaw watched the she-cat rip open the prey and start to swallow it down. His own hunger rose up and his mouth filled with water. He knew he shouldn’t even be thinking about eating. He still had to take back enough prey for the Clan, but the fresh-kill smelled delicious.

The deputy is the second-in-command to the leader, and may be considered an apprentice to the art of leading the Clan. They serve in the leader's place in situations where the leader is unable to fulfill their duties.

“You mean, you’d choose to be a medicine cat for Clanmates that have no kinship with you, over caring for your own kits? Our own kits?” His voice rose to a screech. “What kind of she-cat are you? Do you care for nothing beyond yourself?”

The medicine cat serves the Clan as both their spiritual leader and healer, making them akin to the idea of a 'medicine man' in a tribal society.In addition to their responsibilities to their Clan, they have responsibility to one another and StarClan. They carry out their responsibilities to StarClan once every half-moon, meeting together to discuss matters privately and share dreams with StarClan.

“Some queens shouldn’t have kits,” Yellowfang muttered. Inside, she was desperately worried about her son. I can’t bear that he might feel unwanted and unloved!

A warrior is a cat trained in the arts of fighting and hunting. Warriors make up the bulk of a Clan, and provide that Clan with the protection and food supply that keeps it safe and well-fed