The Velveteen Rabbit is a British children's book written by Margery Williams and illustrated by William Nicholson. It chronicles the story of a stuffed rabbit's. HERE was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. .. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had. The Velveteen Rabbit: Or How Toys Become Real (All Aboard Books) [Margery Williams, Florence Graham] on unpauvagari.ga *FREE* shipping on qualifying.
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When I was a very young child, so young that I do not remember the actual gift, my mother downloadd the book along with it came a stuffed toy rabbit. I do recall. The Velveteen Rabbit book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those. Singapore largest bookstore offering books, magazines, music, CD, Manga and By the time the Velveteen Rabbit is dirty, worn out, and about to be burned.
Her first novel was published when she… More about Margery Williams. A good read-aloud for small groups of children. Join Reader Rewards and earn your way to a free book! Join Reader Rewards and earn points when you download this book from your favorite retailer. Read An Excerpt. Hardcover 3 —. download the Hardcover: About The Velveteen Rabbit This beautiful gift edition includes an exclusive downloadable reading by Juliet Stevenson.
Also by Margery Williams. See all books by Margery Williams. Product Details.
Inspired by Your Browsing History. Praise "Well done. Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and the Boy ran past near them, and with a stamp of feet and a flash of white tails the two strange rabbits disappeared.
I know I am Real! But there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed. The Velveteen Rabbit was all alone. Why couldn't they stop and talk to me? For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back.
But they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came and carried him home. Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded.
He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about.
He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter. His face grew very flushed, and he talked in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him close. Strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little Velveteen Rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he knew that the Boy needed him.
It was a long weary time, for the Boy was too ill to play, and the little Rabbit found it rather dull with nothing to do all day long. But he snuggled down patiently, and looked forward to the time when the Boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to.
All sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the Boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear.
And presently the fever turned, and the Boy got better. He was able to sit up in bed and look at picture-books, while the little Rabbit cuddled close at his side. And one day, they let him get up and dress. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open.
They had carried the Boy out on to the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, and the little Rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking. The Boy was going to the seaside to-morrow. Everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor's orders.
They talked about it all, while the little Rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had played with in bed must be burnt.
Get him a new one. He mustn't have that any more! And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house.
That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. He had the potatoes to dig and the green peas to gather, but next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot. That night the Boy slept in a different bedroom, and he had a new bunny to sleep with him. It was a splendid bunny, all white plush with real glass eyes, but the Boy was too excited to care very much about it.
For to-morrow he was going to the seaside, and that in itself was such a wonderful thing that he could think of nothing else. And while the Boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out.
He was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him. Near by he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the Boy on bygone mornings. He thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden—how happy they were—and a great sadness came over him.
He seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower-bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken and the little ants ran over his paws; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was Real.
He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this?
And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground. And then a strange thing happened. For where the tear had fallen a flower grew out of the ground, a mysterious flower, not at all like any that grew in the garden.
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