How to Catch a Bogle [electronic resource] :

Titel:

Verfasser:

Beschreibung:

-- less dangerous work than mudlarking for scraps along the vile river Thames. Or so it seems-until the orphans of London start to disappear . . .

Verlag:

Penguin Random House,

Datum:

2014

Digitales Format:

CLOUDLIBRARY MP3

Sprache:

Englisch

Zusammenfassung

If ever a chill entered her soul, or the hope suddenly drained from her heart, she knew a bogle was to blame.

Birdie McAdam, a ten-year-old orphan, is tougher than she looks. She's proud of her job as apprentice to Alfred the Bogler, a man who catches monsters for a living. Birdie lures the bogles out of their lairs with her sweet songs, and Alfred kills them before they kill her. On the mean streets of Victorian England, hunting bogles is actually less dangerous work than mudlarking for scraps along the vile river Thames. Or so it seems--until the orphans of London start to disappear . . .

Rezensionen (6)

Publisher's Weekly-Rezension

Orphan Birdie McAdam, age 10, is apprenticed to Alfred the Bogler, who uses Birdie's angelic singing voice to lure monsters out of their hiding spots in sewer pipes or fire grates, then kills them with Finn MacCool's spear before they can kill Birdie. As risky as that sounds, Birdie loves her job, and she feels threatened when Miss Eames, an academic studying English folklore, starts accompanying Alfred and Birdie on their rounds and points out that Birdie's occupation makes other Dickensian-era job opportunities for children seem positively wholesome by comparison. This is top-notch storytelling from Jinks (the Evil Genius series), full of wit, a colorful cast of rogues, and delectable slang. The tension-fueled plot moves forward on two tracks as Birdie and Alfred face increasingly perilous confrontations with a variety of monsters, and Miss Eames makes Birdie an irresistible offer-music lessons and a place in her comfortable home instead of near-certain death. What will loyal Birdie do? Prepare to wait to find out-this installment is the first in a projected trilogy. Ages 9-12. Author's agent: Jill Grinberg, Jill Grinberg Literary Management. Illustrator's agent: Abigail Samoun, Red Fox Literary. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Horn Book-Rezension

This quasi-Victorian, somewhat gothic fantasy is a satisfying confection. Apprenticed to Alfred the Bogler, Birdie's task is to use her clear singing voice to lure resident bogles out of hiding so Alfred can destroy them. The pair makes a decent living doing away with the child-eating creatures, but then educated, well-meaning Miss Eames steps in. Miss Eames wants to study bogles scientifically, but soon she has another aim -- to educate Birdie for a safer, more genteel profession that can last into adulthood. Then the worst happens: Birdie is captured and imprisoned in an insane asylum by dreadful Dr. Morton, who thinks nothing of feeding children to bogles to further his megalomaniacal aims. Jinks is an assured storyteller: character, plot, and style develop with buoyant, pleasing momentum, and her rendition of working-class English dialect reads accessibly. While this is fantasy -- somewhat similar in flavor to Joan Aiken's Dido Twite tales -- factual elements of the period undergird and strengthen setting and story line. Birdie is a bright, stalwart heroine whose limitless font of haunting ballads tinges the story with melancholy. deirdre f. baker (c) Copyright 2013. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Booklist-Rezension

*Starred Review* Ten-year-old Birdie considers herself fortunate not to be begging, stealing, or living in the workhouse. As an apprentice to Alfred the Bogler, she receives food and shelter in exchange for helping him trap and destroy the hungry, monstrous bogles (goblins) that lurk in houses, where they snatch and eat the occasional child. Her role in the business? Birdie is the bait. Standing with her back to the bogle's hideout, she sings sweetly until he shows himself and Alfred dispatches him. Despite her dangerous occupation, Birdie balks when Miss Eames, a lady with a scientific interest in bogle hunting, offers to raise her above her station. Suspense mounts when human enemies begin to surpass the supernatural ones in malevolence, destruction, and sheer terror. Birdie proves her mettle time and time again in this richly atmospheric tale set in London around 1870. In the pitch-perfect narrative, the bogles seem as normal a part of the city's life as the costers, griddlers, mudlarks, and toffs (a glossary is appended). The first volume of a planned trilogy from the author of the Evil Genius series and the Pagan series, this intense historical thriller is rewarding on its own, but A Plague of Bogles is scheduled to arrive next fall.--Phelan, Carolyn Copyright 2010 Booklist

New York Review of Books-Rezension

the twin monsters of modern-day parenting are, on the one side, the cloying hoverer, who suffocates innocent babes when they try to take an independent step, and on the other, the screeching separatist, who dispatches small children onto the nearest public transport system with no coat and the wrong change. How do you navigate between them? Nobody knows. But as you wrestle with the mystery, hand your child a copy of Catherine Jinks's "How to Catch a Bogle." Let your darling wander unsupervised down the streets of Victorian London for a change. The book, which is part "Great Expectations," part "Ghostbusters" and a little bit "Vindication of the Rights of Woman," mixes monster murder with work ethics and the importance of a girl being able to make a living for herself. Among the bogles (a catch-all word for monsters), readers will encounter the Black Annis, who tans its victims' hides ; the hobyah, a northern variety who eats children; and knuckers, who come from Sussex They will also meet the excellent Birdie, born Bridie McAdam, an apprentice to Alfred Bunce, bogle hunter. Bogle hunting is an ancient trade, and Birdie is proud of her lot: "For the hundredth time she secretly congratulated herself on being a bogler's girl; there was so much excitement and variety in a bogler's life." When she and Bunce set a trap, Birdie stands in a magic circle of salt, with a small gap to let the monster in. Over time, she has learned to detect a bogle's presence from the sudden chill that seizes her soul or the way the shadows thicken. She keeps her back turned to danger as she sings it sweetly to her, and although she is often afraid, she holds steady. At the last moment, Bunce seals the circle, Birdie leaps free and the bogler spears the beast. A bogle may shiver and disintegrate, deflate slowly or pop like a disgusting balloon, but once the splattered plasma has been dealt with and the rank smell lifts, it's another day's bogling done and time for some pease pudding. The thing about life in East London is that bogles are only half the problem. There's the paupers' school, whose headmaster once struck Birdie across the face ; wicked Sally Pickles, who runs a gang of criminal youngsters; and the most terrifying monster of all: the workhouse. "I'd rather be a bogler's girl than work in a match factory and have me jaw eaten away by acid. Or get stuck in a chimney, or drowned in a sewer, or chopped up by a machine," Birdie declares. The real trouble begins when some of Sally Pickles's boys go missing, and Birdie and Bunce end up searching for them in the company of a busybody folklorist, Miss Edith Eames from Bloomsbury Square. Tension builds between Birdie, who is deeply engaged in her dangerous work, and Eames, who wants to save her from it. Yet even these challenges are minor compared with the villain Birdie must eventually face, a man with eyes "the bleached and chilly color of river ice." For all its grime, Jinks's world is rich, and if her Victorian English starts out a little twee ("I ain't afeared o' bogles, Miss Meggs"), it soon grows some muscle. "I came here on account of I were sent for," the pragmatic Bunce says. "Yer days are numbered, you dimmick!" Birdie yells. Another character innocently inquires, "Why'd you dress so glocky, miss? You look like a half-wit." There is ugliness here, but there's power, too; it's a taste of life without an adult to look after you, and perhaps for adults, it's a chance to urge their children down a quiet alley, where the air palls, the shadows twitch and an odd black smoke has only just this moment begun to bubble up from a dark hole - but in a good way. ? CHRISTINE KENNEALLY is the author of "The First Word: The Search for the Origins of Language."

School Library Journal-Rezension

Gr 4-7-Victorian England is a dangerous place for children. If they venture too near a chimney, a well, or a dark corner they just might disappear; these are places where hungry bogles often lurk. But London is a safer place with bogler Alfred Bunce and his 10-year-old apprentice, Birdie, on the prowl. Birdie serves as bait using her sweet singing to entice voracious, slimy, smelly bogles to appear. Alfred stands ready for the kill with a spear once owned by legendary warrior Finn M'Coul. An unlikely friendship and a change of fortune for Alfred and Birdie begin when a folklorist learns about their work. Miss Edith Eames then accompanies the bogler and his apprentice on jobs, including a particularly dangerous one that infuriates a true villain. Miss Eames learns that monsters live beyond books and myth-some are men-plus she sees huge potential beyond bogling in Birdie's beautiful singing voice. The action-packed story and likable characters come alive through the well-paced, dramatically voiced narration. Mandy Williams not only assumes the various accents of Victorian England's upper and working classes, but also uses a sweet, convincing singing voice for the traditional songs Birdie warbles. In addition to heightening the tale's tension, the music provides an introduction to sometimes saucy, sometimes grisly 19th-century ballads. The open ending is satisfying and is sure to leave listeners wanting the next installment.-Maria Salvadore, formerly of the Washington, DC Public Library (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Kirkus-Rezension

Child-eating bogles infest Victorian London, providing work aplenty for "Go-Devil Man" Alfred Bunce and his intrepid young apprentice, Birdie. Singing morbid verses from popular ballads in her angelic voice to draw the shadowy creatures out of their chimneys, sewers or other lairs so that Alfred can stab them with his special lance, Birdie thinks she has "the best job in the world" despite the risk--she could be snatched and eaten if the timing is even a little off. Alas, the idyll doesn't survive a double set of complications. First, unctuous would-be warlock Roswell Morton, out to capture one of the monsters for his own evil uses, kidnaps her and plants her in an insane asylum to force Alfred's cooperation. Second are the unwanted but, as it turns out, saving attentions of Miss Edith Eames, a self-described "folklorist." Her navet about London's nastier stews conceals both a quick wit and a fixed determination to see Birdie cleaned up and educated in the social graces. The tale is set in a range of locales, most of them noxious and well-stocked with rousingly scary hobgoblins as well as a cast of colorful Londoners with Dickensian names like Sally Pickles and Ned Roach. It dashes along smartly to a suspenseful climactic kerfuffle as it endears its 10-year-old protagonist, whose temper is matched only by her courage in the clutch, to readers. Jinks opens her projected trilogy in high style, offering a period melodrama replete with colorful characters, narrow squeaks and explosions of ectoplasmic goo. (glossary of slang and monster types) (Historical fantasy. 10-13)]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Auszüge

London, England, c. 1870 Two Missing Boys The front door was painted black, with a shiny brass knocker that made a satisfying noise when Alfred used it. Rat-tat-tat. Birdie spied a lace curtain twitching in the drawing room window. "Someone's at home," she remarked. Alfred said nothing. He looked tired after their long walk--but then again he always looked tired. His gray mustache drooped. His shoulders were bent. His brown eyes sagged at the corners under his wide, floppy hat brim. Suddenly the door was flung open. a housemaid in a white cap peered at them suspiciously, her gaze lingering on Alfred's frayed canvas trousers and baggy green coat. "Yes?" she asked. "What's yer business?" Alfred removed his hat. "The name is Bunce," he replied in his gravelly voice. "I came here on account of I were sent for." "Sent for?" The housemaid echoed. "A Miss Ellen Meggs sent for me, by passing word through Tom Cobbings." "Oh!" The housemaid put a hand to her mouth. "Are you the Go-devil Man?" "The bogler. Aye." "And I'm Birdie. I'm the 'prentice." Because Birdie was very small and thin and pale, she was often ignored. So she liked to wear the most colorful clothes she could find. This summer her dress was a dull cotton drab, but she had added a little cape made of yellow satin, very soiled and creased, and there were red feathers on her battered straw hat. Stepping out of her master's shadow, she beamed up at the housemaid, eager to make friends. The housemaid, however, was too flustered to notice Birdie. "Oh, why did you knock on this door?" she lamented. "The hawker's door is down by the coal hole! Come in quick, afore the neighbors see you both." Hustling Alfred and Birdie across the threshold, she slammed the door and said, " I'm Ellen Meggs. I'm the one as sent for you. My mistress knows nothing o' this, nor won't neither, if I have my way." "Ain't she in?" Birdie asked shrewdly, glancing through the door to her left. It opened off a handsome entrance hall that Birdie thought finer than anything she had ever seen in her life--a lofty space with carpet on the stairs and paper on the walls and a bronze statue in one corner. The cedar joinery gleamed, and the air smelled of lemon. But there was a broom propped against the hat stand. And through the door that she'd spotted, Birdie could make out furniture swathed in dust sheets. "Mrs. Plumeridge is at the seaside for her health," Ellen replied. "Oh, but there's other old cats across the way that never leave their parlor windows, and they'll have seen you come in, sure as eggs!" She stamped her foot in frustration, her round, pink face growing even pinker under its frizz of sandy hair. Alfred sighed. His shoulders were slumped beneath the weight of his sack, which he never let his apprentice carry, no matter how desperately she pleaded. "What's yer particulars, Miss Meggs?" He inquired. "Tom Cobbings had none to give, save for yer name and where I'd find you. Is there a bogle in this house?" Ellen opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her gaze had fallen on Birdie, whose blue eyes, freckled nose, and flyaway curls looked as delicate as fine china. Birdie knew exactly what the housemaid was thinking, because everyone always thought the same thing. Only Alfred understood that Birdie was a heroine, brave and quick and valiant. "I ain't afeared o' bogles, Miss Meggs," Birdie announced. "Though I'm only ten years old, I've helped bring down many a one. Ain't that so, Mr. Bunce?" "Aye, but we've heard enough from you, lass." Alfred was growing impatient. Birdie could tell by the way he shifted from one ill-shod foot to the other. "What's yer particulars, Miss Meggs?" he repeated. "Who gave you me nam?" "A friend," Ellen answered. "She's Scotch but lives here in London. She said you got rid of a worricow, or some such thing, as lived in a coal hole in Hackney and took a little shoe binder's child." she threw him a questioning glance. When Alfred nodded, she continued hastily. "Hearing that made me wonder about the chimney sweep's boys. For we've lost two in the past month, and I cannot believe they both ran away." By now she was anxiously fiddling with her apron, crushing it between her restless hands, then smoothing it out again. "In the Dane Hills, where my Ma were raised, a creature they called Black Annis used to eat children. And would tan their skins for its adornment, or so i've heard-" "Tell me about the sweep's boys," Alfred interrupted. "They went missing, you say?" "From this house," Ellen assured him solemnly. "They disappeared up the dining room chimney, and no one's seen 'em since." "Perhaps they're stuck," Birdie proposed. She knew that sweep's boys often became wedged in chimneys, where they sometimes died. "No." Ellen shook her head. "That chimney draws as well as it ever did, and there's been no stink." Lowering her voice, she added, "The sweep told me them boys must have climbed to the rooftops and run away. they do that sometimes, he said. But he won't come back, which is strange. And I'll not send for another sweep, no matter what the mistress wants. Not if there's a bad'un up there." "We'll find out soon enough," Alfred assured her. Then he raised the subject of his fee. "It'll be fivepence for the visit and six shillings a bogle, with the cost o' the salt on top. Did Tom mention that?" The housemaid gave a grunt. she seemed resigned to the expense, which wasn't unreasonable. "Ma's paying," she admitted. "She won't have me in any house that's bedeviled, but this is a good situation. If I'm to stay, I must stump up, for Mrs. Plumeridge never will. Mrs. Plumeridge don't believe in bogles or the like. No, not even white ladies." She stopped for a moment to draw breath, giving Birdie a chance to inform her that the first fivepence had to be paid in advance. It was Birdie's job to ask, because Alfred often forgot. Once Ellen had agreed to these terms, they all trooped into the dining room, which opened off the hall. It was a very dark room, with maroon walls and a thick Axminster carpet. But the white dust sheets on the tables, chairs, and sideboard lightened the atmosphere a little--as did the muslin roses in the fireplace. Ellen pointed at these roses, saying, "Mrs. Plumeridge dines in here only at Christmas, or when her nephew comes, for she likes to eat off trays. so we rarely light a fire in this room." "Then why clean the chimney?" It seemed like a foolish extravagance to Birdie, who was finding it hard enough to understand why one person would want so many rooms, let alone so many fireplaces. Ellen explained that her mistress, who was "very particular," had a morbid fear of rats' nests in her unused chimneys. Meanwhile, Alfred was examining the marble mantelpiece and shiny steel grate. "Have you lit a fire in here since the boys vanished?" he asked Ellen gruffly. "Only once, to see if it would draw." "Did it smoke?" "No." "You've smelled nothing? Seen no strange marks, no heard any peculiar noises? Ellen thought hard for a moment. Finally she said, "No." It was Alfred's turn to grunt. then he surveyed the room, frowning, and told her in an undertone, "We must move that table. and the chairs." "Oh, but--" "Else I'll catch nothing, and you'll have wasted yer five pence." So Ellen helped Afred to shift the table, while Birdie moved the chairs. All the furniture was extremely heavy. After a generous space had been cleared in front of the fireplace, Ellen went downstairs to fetch Alfred's fee, leaving him to make his preparations. First he rolled up the carpet until a wide expanse of parquet floor was showing. Then he took a bag of salt from his sack and traced a large circle on the ground. But the circle wasn't perfect; he left a small break in its smooth line just opposite the hearthstone. When Ellen returned, he was carefully unwrapping a short staff, which had a sharp end like a spearhead. On catching sight of it, the housemaid blanched. "Oh, you'll not be making a mess in here?" she exclaimed. "I'll lose my place if you do!" Alfred put a finger to his lips. Birdie, who was by the door, took Ellen's arm and nudged her into the hall, saying, "there's a puddle or two on occasion, but nothing to fret about." "Oh dear . . ." "And you must air the room after. And if you stay to watch, you must keep to the hall, quiet as a mouse." Though Birdie spoke with confidence, in a calm and steady voice, her stomach was starting to knot and her heart to pound. These familiar symptoms overtook her before every job. But she had learned to ignore them. "And the door must stand open," she finished. "Open and clear. Whatever you do, don't shut the door--else how shall I escape when the time comes?" By this time Ellen was wringing her hands. "Must I stay?" she whimpered. "No. Some like to, on account of they don't trust us and think we're running a caper." Birdie grinned suddenly, recalling one man who'd paid for his suspicions with a bump on the head. He'd fallen over in a dead faint and had afterward sicked up all his tea. "Once they see the bogle, they soon change their tune," she remarked, "Though they're in no great danger." "I'll stand clear," said Ellen. "Beside the front door." Birdie inclined her head. "With a poker," Ellen added. Birdie didn't tell her that a poker would have little effect on a monster, because she knew that Ellen wouldn't need to defend herself. No customer ever had, and none ever would. Not while Alfred was in charge. Not while Birdie was his apprentice. "There's nothing to fear," she insisted, patting the older girl's apron bow. "Why, it's no more'n catching a rat. For there's rats as big as bogles where I come from, and they ain't never eaten us yet!" Then Birdie laughed gaily, and took Ellen's fivepence, and went to help Alfred bait his trap. Excerpted from How to Catch a Bogle by Catherine Jinks All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.