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Summary
Summary
Iain Lawrence's New York Times bestsellers are often singled out for recognition from numerous publications and organizations, including the ALA, School Library Journal, and Booklist. In The Winter Pony, Lawrence pens the mesmerizing tale of a young white Siberian pony who escapes a group of cruel masters only to enter the company of Englishman Robert Falcon Scott. Joining Scott's men and their race to the South Pole, the pony is soon given a name, James Pigg, as he and the rest embark on a thrilling race to reach the bottom of the world-a race in which not everyone will survive.
Author Notes
Iain Lawrence is a journalist, travel writer, and author. His novels include Ghost Boy, Lord of the Nutcracker Men, The Skeleton Tree, and the High Seas Trilogy.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Horn Book Review
A small gray pony selected for use in Captain Robert Scott's 1911 polar expedition, the newly named James Pigg finds himself being treated kindly for the first time in his life, particularly by his handler, expedition member Patrick Keohane. But the harsh Antarctic terrain is unforgiving. The fall depot-laying trip (caching supplies for a spring run to the pole) nearly claims our horse- narrator's life several times as the cold and snow take their toll and unexpected dangers arise, although moments of humor lighten the mood. James Pigg winters over in a stall at the base camp, then is proud to join the expedition when the weather breaks. Lawrence tells the horse's tale in chapters alternating with italicized sections describing Scott's plans and preparations as well as those of his rival, Norwegian explorer Amundsen. Although the gripping survival narrative is thoroughly researched, tautly written, and maintains a consistent historical tone, Lawrence runs into difficulty with his audience. The kind of reader who selects a book with a horse protagonist (and a pretty pony pictured on the cover) will recoil from horse death after horse death, the final moments of which Lawrence makes poignant by portraying the human handlers' regrets. The last leg of the journey to the pole is particularly brutal, with the remaining horses (including James Pigg) being slaughtered and the explorers who reach the pole (five weeks after Amundsen) dying of cold and starvation. Hardened adventure junkies will celebrate the human spirit that even made such an attempt; most everyone else will reflect soberly on the cost. anita l. burkam(c) Copyright 2012. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Booklist Review
A little white pony dreams of a sparkling gate in a cold, snowy place: a welcoming entrance to a pony heaven of sorts. The vision comforts him on what will be the harsh and cruel saga of his life on the pony team of Robert Falcon Scott's mission to the South Pole from 1910 to 1912. Dubbed James Pigg by his kindly handlers, our pony narrates in sparkling prose this heartbreaking tale of toil, adventure, and herculean effort against all odds. Desperate to keep up with the faster, stronger ponies and prove himself against the snarling dogs, Jimmy Pigg battles for his survival every day. I didn't want him to see that I was hurt. An injured pony was a dead pony, he muses when his human teammate Patrick tends to him. Young readers will question the ethics of the doomed journey, one that later generations would see was not planned carefully enough compared to Roald Amundsen's successful mission. They'll also need warning of the gruesome pony deaths. That said, Lawrence tells a most compelling tale.--O'Malley, Anne Copyright 2010 Booklist
School Library Journal Review
Gr 5-8-With his usual spirit of high adventure combined with all the pathos and tragedy of Black Beauty, Iain Lawrence spins an engrossing tale (Delacorte, 2011) that captures listeners' attention and imagination. The tale is related through the eyes of James Pigg, one of the 20 white Manchurian ponies from Siberia that accompanied Robert Scott on his fatal journey to reach the South Pole. Hauntingly narrated by Eduardo Bellerini, listeners experience the brutal, frigid, and mind-numbing expedition as well as the complicated interactions among ponies, humans, and dogs. Not for the faint of heart or overly sensitive, the story embodies determination, devotion, and fortitude. This book will soon sit on the shelf of animal classics along with Fred Gipson's Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls, and Marjorie Rawlings's The Yearling.-Laurie Balderson, Hamilton-Holmes Middle School, VA (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
The year is 1910, and a great adventure is beginning. It will take two years to finish and will end in a desperate race across the bottom of the world, with a dead man being the winner." Captain Scott decides to bring dogs as well as 20 light-colored ponies--light only because Shackleton's dark-colored ones all died. James Pigg wasn't always James Pigg--he was a Manchurian pony roaming free until he was captured, and broken, by men. Along with the compassionate and affable James Pigg's unflinching chronicle of Scott's journey and its accompanying horrors from frostbite to death, his equine perspective allows an insightful exploration of the relationships of men to dogs and ponies alike, revealing both cruelty and extraordinary kindness, even love. The author's note, in which Lawrence describes his childhood hero-worship of Scott and his initial attraction to James Pigg's story is as fascinating as the rest. A survival story so vivid readers will want to don a warm jacket and have a comforting bowl of soup within reach. (map of explorers' routes, cast of characters, author's note, acknowledgments, about the author) (Historical fiction. 9-14) ]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One I was born in the forest, at the foot of the mountains, in a meadow I knew as the grassy place. The first thing I saw was the sun shining red through the trees, and seven shaggy animals grazing on their shadows. They were ponies. And I was a pony, my legs as weak as saplings. My mother had to nudge me to my feet the first time she fed me. But within a day, our little band was on the move. I skipped along at my mother's side, thinking I was already as fast and strong as any other pony, not knowing that the others had slowed to keep me near. Our leader was a silvery stallion, as wary as an owl. We never crossed an open slope without him going first, standing dead still at the edge while he watched for wolves and mountain lions. He was always last to drink and last to graze, keeping guard until we'd finished. Except for one dark patch on his chest, his whole body was the color of snow. I loved to see him in the wind and the sun, with his white mane blown into shimmering streamers. We had a route that took a year to travel, from the snow-filled valleys of winter to summer's high meadows. It brought us back every spring to a stony creek that we crossed single file. Our hooves made a lovely chuckling sound on the rocks as the water gurgled round our ankles. We climbed the bank on the other side, passed through a fringe of forest, and came to the grassy place, which I imagined to be the center of the world. I thought everything would stay the same forever, that I would always be young and free, that day would follow day and the summers would pass by the thousands. But even in my first year, I saw the young ponies growing older, and I saw an old one die. She was a big strong mare in the spring. But quite suddenly in the fall, she began to walk very slowly, to lag behind the herd. She didn't complain, and she didn't cry out for the rest of us to wait. She just eased herself away, and one night she wandered off to a watering place, all by herself in the darkness, and she lay down and didn't get up. I saw her in the morning, her nose just touching the frozen water, her legs splayed out like an insect's. I nudged her with my lips and found her cold and stiff, as though her body had become a stone. At that moment, I knew that nothing lived forever, that one day even I would die. That was hard to understand. What did it mean to die? The grass didn't mind to be eaten, and the water didn't care if I drank it. But rabbits screamed when foxes pounced, and tiny mice shrieked for help as they dangled in eagles' talons. So why did the mare lie down so quietly, with no more grief or struggle than a fallen tree? It scared me to think about it, and I was glad when the leader called me away. Across the valley, wolves were already howling the news of a fresh meal. So we hurried from there, off at a gallop through the forest. When wolves came hunting, ponies fled. We went on across a hillside, through a valley and up again, and we didn't stop until we reached the grassy place. The next morning was exactly like my very first on earth. The sun was red again, throwing shafts of light between the branches. The ponies were scattered across the meadow, their shaggy manes hanging round their ears as they grazed on the sweet grass. When we heard the clatter of hooves in the stream, we all looked up together. My mother had green stems drooping from each side of her mouth. The leader turned his head, his ears twitching. At the edge of the meadow, a crow suddenly burst from a tree. I stared at the place, wondering what had frightened the bird. And out from the forest, with a shout and a cry, came four black horses with men on their backs. They came at a gallop, bounding across the clearing, hooves making thunderous beats that shook through the ground. I had never seen a man. I had never seen a horse. I thought each pair was a single animal, a two-headed monster charging toward me. My mother called out as she bolted. She reached the forest in two long bounds and vanished among the trees, still shrieking for me to follow. But I was too afraid to move, and the other ponies nearly bowled me over in their rush for the forest. Only the stallion stayed. He faced the four horses and reared up on his hind legs, seeming to me as tall as a tree. He flailed with his hooves, ready to take on all of the monsters at once. They closed around him. The riders shouted. The black horses whinnied and snorted. They pranced through the grass in high, skittish steps, as though trampling foxes. And the stallion towered above them all with his silvery mane tossing this way and that. Then one of the riders whirled away and came tearing toward me. His horse was running flat out, flinging up mud and grass from its hooves. I cried for my mother, but she couldn't help me. I raced for the trees faster than I'd ever run before. I left the stallion to his dreadful battle and fled blindly for the forest. I heard the strange shouts of the men, the snorts of their horses, and thought that each monster had two voices. Amid their babble were the shrill cries of the stallion, full of anger and fear, and the frantic calls of my mother fading into the forest. I followed her cries. I crashed through the bushes and wove between the trees, dashing through a hollow, hurdling a fallen pine. I stumbled, got up, and ran again. I dodged to the left; I dodged to the right, aware all the time that the monster was behind me. I could hear its deep panting and its weird cries, and the crack-crack-crack of a leather whip. I came to the foot of a long hill. For a moment, I saw the herd of ponies above me, my mother among them, their white shapes galloping ghostly between the trees. And then a loop of rope fell over my head, and it snapped tight around my neck. I tumbled forward, my head wrenched right around until I thought my neck was broken. I lay on the ground, half strangled and breathless, as the monster glared at me with its four eyes. I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing as the creature seemed to break in two. The man heaved himself up, then down from the saddle, and I realized the horse was much like a pony, just bigger and blacker. Without a word from the man--all by itself--the horse stepped backward to keep the rope taut around my neck. It kept staring right at me with a cold look, unconcerned by my pain. I didn't struggle; it was all I could do to keep breathing. I watched the man come walking toward me, and I wondered what sort of creature he was, that he could turn horse against pony so completely. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from The Winter Pony by Iain Lawrence 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.