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Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NimhKindle Edition
Mrs. Frisby, a widowed mouse with four small children, is faced with a terrible problem. She must move her family to their summer quarters immediately, or face almost certain death. But her youngest son, Timothy, lies ill with pneumonia and must not be moved. Fortunately, she encounters the rats of NIMH, an extraordinary breed of highly intelligent creatures, who come up with a brilliant solution to her dilemma. And Mrs. Frisby in turn renders them a great service.
- LanguageEnglish
- Grade level3 - 7
- Lexile measure790L
- PublisherAtheneum Books for Young Readers
- Publication dateJune 1, 2021
- ISBN-13978-0689710681
- Study Guide: Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O'Brien (SuperSummary)Kindle Edition$9.95$9.95
Editorial Reviews
Amazon Review
This unusual novel, winner of the Newbery Medal (among a host of other accolades) snags the reader on page one and reels in steadily all the way through to the exhilarating conclusion. Robert O'Brien has created a small but complete world in which a mother's concern for her son overpowers her fear of all her natural enemies and allows her to make some extraordinary discoveries along the way. O'Brien's incredible tale, along with Zena Bernstein's appealing ink drawings, ensures that readers will never again look at alley rats and field mice in the same way. (Ages 9 to 12)--Emilie Coulter
Review
* "Loyal, resourceful Mrs. Frisby... is the engaging heroine of this thoroughly engrossing, thought-provoking fantasy." -- School Library Journal, starred review
From the Publisher
About the Author
Zena Bernstein has a BFA from Syracuse University. She began her career as a book illustrator in New York City. Zena uses a combination of watercolor and acrylics in her work. Through a meticulous process, she carefully places several layers of dots of pure color to suggest subtle tones and shades. She refers to her creative work as a labor of love. Her drawings range from the natural world of mushrooms and insects to the unseen world of fairies and gnomes. She’s perhaps best known for illustrating the children’s bookMrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.Zena currently calls Canada home; it’s also the home of the fairies she draws and writes about.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Mrs. Frisby, the head of a family of field mice, lived in an underground house in the vegetable garden of a farmer named Mr. Fitzgibbon. It was a winter house, such as some field mice move to when food becomes too scarce, and the living too hard in the woods and pastures. In the soft earth of a bean, potato, black-eyed pea and asparagus patch there is plenty of food left over for mice after the human crop has been gathered.
Mrs. Frisby and her family were especially lucky in the house itself. It was a slightly damaged cinder block, the hollow kind with two oval holes through it; it had somehow been abandoned in the garden during the summer and lay almost completely buried, with only a bit of one corner showing above ground, which is how Mrs. Frisby had discovered it. It lay on its side in such a way that the solid parts of the block formed a roof and a floor, both waterproof, and the hollows made two spacious rooms. Lined with bits of leaves, grass, cloth, cotton fluff, feathers and other soft things Mrs. Frisby and her children had collected, the house stayed dry, warm and comfortable all winter. A tunnel to the surface-earth of the garden, dug so that it was slightly larger than a mouse and slightly smaller than a cat’s foreleg, provided access, air, and even a fair amount of light to the living room. The bedroom, formed by the second oval, was warm but dark, even at midday. A short tunnel through the earth behind the block connected the two rooms.
Although she was a widow (her husband had died only the preceding summer), Mrs. Frisby was able, through luck and hard work, to keep her family—there were four children—happy and well fed. January and February were the hardest months; the sharp, hard cold that began in December lasted until March, and by February the beans and black-eyes had been picked over (with help from the birds), the asparagus roots were frozen into stone, and the potatoes had been thawed and refrozen so many times they had acquired a slimy texture and a rancid taste. Still, the Frisbys made the best of what there was, and one way or another they kept from being hungry.
Then, one day at the very end of February, Mrs. Frisby’s younger son, Timothy, fell sick.
That day began with a dry, bright, icy morning. Mrs. Frisby woke up early, as she always did. She and her family slept close together in a bed of down, fluff, and bits of cloth they had gathered, warm as a ball of fur.
She stood up carefully so as not to awaken the children, and walked quietly through the short tunnel to the living room. Here it was not so warm, but not really cold either. She could see from the light filtering down the entrance tunnel that the sun was up, and bright. She looked at the food in her pantry, a hollowed-out space lined with small stones in the earth behind the living room. There was plenty of food for breakfast, and lunch and dinner, too, for that matter; but still the sight depressed her, for it was the same tiresome fare they had been eating every day, every meal, for the last month. She wished she knew where to find a bit of green lettuce, or a small egg, or a taste of cheese, or a corn muffin. There were eggs in plenty not far off, in the henhouse. But hens and hens’ eggs are too big for a field mouse to cope with; and besides, between the garden and the henhouse there was a wide sward of shrubs and grass, some of it grown up quite tall. Cat territory.
She climbed up the tunnel, emerging whiskers first, and looked around warily. The air was sharp, and there was white frost thick on the ground and on the dead leaves at the edge of the wood across the garden patch.
Mrs. Frisby set off over the gently furrowed earth, and when she reached the fence, she turned right, skirting the border of the forest, searching with her bright round eyes for a bit of carrot, a frozen parsnip, or something green. But there was nothing green at that time of year but the needles on the pine trees and the leaves on the holly, neither of which a mouse—or any other animal, for that matter—can eat.
And then, straight in front of her, she did see something green. She had reached the far corner of the garden, and there, at the edge of the woods where it met the fence, was a stump. In the stump there was a hole, and out of the hole protruded something that looked a little like a leaf, but was not.
Mrs. Frisby had no trouble at all going through the cattle wire fence, but she approached the hole cautiously. If the stump was hollow, as it seemed to be, there was no telling who or what might be living in it.
A foot or so from the hole she stopped, stood still, and watched and listened. She could hear no sound, but from there she could see what the green was. It was, in fact, a yellowish-brownish-green: a bit of a corn shuck. But what was a corn shuck doing there? The cornfield was in a different part of the farm altogether, away beyond the pasture. Mrs. Frisby hopped closer and then, carefully, crept up the side of the stump and peered inside. When her eyes got used to the dark, she saw that she had found a treasure: a winter’s supply of food, carefully stored and then, for some reason, forgotten or abandoned.
But stored by whom? A racoon perhaps? Not very likely, so far from the stream. More likely a squirrel or a ground hog. She knew that both of these felt free to help themselves to the new corn each year, and that they were strong enough to carry ears away and store them.
But whoever had done it, why had he then abandoned the store? And then she remembered. Back in November there had come from near that edge of the woods the sound that sends all of the animals in the forest shivering to their hiding places—the sound of hunters’ guns shooting, the sound that is accompanied, for someone, by a fiery stabbing pain. And then he never needs his stored food again.
Still, since Mrs. Frisby did not even know what kind of animal it had been, much less his name, she could not shed many tears over him—and food was food. It was not the green lettuce she had longed for, but she and her children were extremely fond of corn, and there were eight large ears in the stump, a noble supply for a mouse family. Down under the corn she also could see a pile of fresh peanuts (from still another part of the farm), some hickory nuts, and a stack of dried, sweet-smelling mushrooms.
With her forepaws and sharp teeth she pulled off a part of the husk from the top ear of corn and folded it double to serve as a crude carrying bag. Then she pulled loose as many of the yellow kernels as she could easily lift, and putting them in the shuck-bag she hopped off briskly for home. She would come back for more after breakfast and bring the children to help.
She backed down the tunnel entrance to her house tail first, pulling the corn after her and calling cheerfully as she went:
“Children! Wake up! See what I have for breakfast. A surprise!”
They came hurrying out, rubbing their eyes in excitement, for any kind of surprise in food was a rare and festive thing in the cold dead of winter. Teresa, the oldest, came first; crowding close behind her was Martin, the biggest, a strong, quick mouse, dark-haired and handsome like his poor father. Then came Cynthia, the youngest, a slim, pretty girl-mouse, light-haired, and, in fact, a little light-headed as well, and over-fond of dancing.
“Where is it?” she said. “What is it? Where’s the surprise?”
“Where is Timothy?” asked Mrs. Frisby.
“Mother,” said Teresa, concerned, “he says he’s sick and can’t get up.”
“Nonsense. Martin, tell your brother to get out of bed at once or he’ll get no breakfast.”
Martin ran to the bedroom obediently but came back in a moment alone.
“He says he feels too sick, and he doesn’t want any breakfast, even a surprise. I felt his forehead, and it’s burning hot.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Frisby. “That sounds as if he really is sick.” Timothy had, on occasion, been known to think he was sick when he really was not. “Here, you may all have your breakfast—save Timothy’s—and I’ll go and see what’s wrong.”
She opened up the green carrying bag and put the corn on the table, dividing it into five equal shares. The dining table was a smooth piece of lath supported on both ends by stones.
“Corn!” shouted Martin. “Oh, Mother. Where did you ever get it?”
“Eat up,” said Mrs. Frisby, “and a little later I’ll show you, because there’s a lot more where this came from.” And she disappeared into the little hallway that led to the bedroom.
“A lot more,” Martin repeated as he sat down with his two sisters. “That sounds like enough to last till moving day.”
“I hope so,” Cynthia said. “When is moving day, anyway?”
“Two weeks,” said Martin authoritatively. “Maybe three.”
“Oh, Martin, how do you know?” protested Teresa. “What if it stays cold? Anyway, suppose Timothy isn’t well enough?”
At this dreadful thought, so casually raised, they all grew worried and fell silent. Then Cynthia said:
“Teresa, you shouldn’t be so gloomy. Of course he’ll be well. He’s just got a cold. That’s all.” She finished eating her corn, and so did the others.
In the bedroom Mrs. Frisby felt Timothy’s forehead. It was indeed hot, and damp with sweat. She took his pulse and dropped his wrist in alarm at what she felt.
“Do you feel sick to your stomach?”
“No, Mother. I feel all right, only cold, and when I sit up I get dizzy. And I can’t get my breath too well.”
Mrs. Frisby peered anxiously at his face, and would have looked at his tongue, but in the dark room she could see no more than the dim outline of his head. He was the thinnest of her children and had a dark complexion like his father and brother. He was narrow of face; his eyes were unusually large and bright, and shone with the intensity of his thought when he spoke. He was, Mrs. Frisby knew, the smartest and most thoughtful of her children, though she would never have admitted this aloud. But he was also the frailest, and when colds or flu or virus infections came around he was the first to catch them and the slowest to recover. He was also—perhaps as a result—something of a hypochondriac. But there was no doubt he was really sick this time. His head felt as if he had a high fever, and his pulse was very fast.
“Poor Timothy. Lie back down and keep covered.” She spread over him some of the bits of cloth they used as blankets. “After a while we’ll fix you a pallet in the living room so you can lie out where it’s light. I’ve found a fine supply of corn this morning, more than we can eat for the rest of the winter. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry. Not now.”
He closed his eyes, and in a few minutes he went to sleep. But it was a restless sleep in which he tossed and moaned continually.
In mid-morning Mrs. Frisby, Martin, and Cynthia set off for the stump to carry home some more of the corn, and some peanuts and mushrooms (the hickory nuts they would leave, for they were too hard for mouse jaws to crack, and too tedious to gnaw through). They left Teresa home to look after Timothy, whom they had wrapped up and helped into a temporary sickbed in the living room. When they returned at lunchtime, carrying heavy loads of food, they found her near tears from worry.
Timothy was much worse. His eyes looked wild and strange from the fever; he trembled continuously, and each breath he took sounded like a gasp for life.
Teresa said: “Oh, Mother, I’m so glad you’re back. He’s been having nightmares and shouting about monsters and cats; and when I talk to him, he doesn’t hear me at all.”
Not only was Timothy not hearing with his ears; his eyes, though wide open, were not seeing, or if they were, he was not recognizing what they saw. When his mother tried to talk to him, to hold his hand and ask him how he felt, he stared past her as if she did not exist. Then he gave out a long, low moan and seemed to be trying to say something, but the words would not form properly and made no sense at all.
The other children stared in frightened silence. Finally Martin asked:
“Mother, what is it? What’s wrong with him?”
“He is terribly ill. His fever is so high he has become delirious. There is nothing for it—I will have to go and see Mr. Ages. Timothy must have medicine.”
Product details
- ASIN : B092X3HDLD
- Publisher : Atheneum Books for Young Readers (June 1, 2021)
- Publication date : June 1, 2021
- Language : English
- File size : 15047 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 236 pages
- Best Sellers Rank:#81,649 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
![Robert C. O'Brien](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/S/amzn-author-media-prod/9ar2rgo4s7jt13r08tatfh8567._SY600_.jpg)
Robert C. O'Brien In real life, Robert C. O'Brien was Robert Leslie Conly. He was born in Brooklyn, New York, attended Williams College and graduated from the Universtiy of Rochester. While there he studied piano at Eastman School of Music, and at one time considered being a musician. Instead, he became an editor and writer for Newsweek magazine from 1941 to 1944, and for Pathfinder from 1946 to 1951. From 1951 until the time of his death in 1973 he was employed as a writer and editor by the National Geographic Magazine. He made his home in New York City before 1944 and in Washington, D.C. after that. He also had a home in Morgan County, West Virginia, after 1965, a place he loved and visited as often as he could. He was married and the father of one son and three daughters. His books include The Silver Crown, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, which won the Newbery Award, and A Report From Group 17. His last book, Z is for Zachariah was nearly completed at the time of his death; the last few chapters were written from notes by this wife and one of his daughters.
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I remember reading this book when I was in elementary school. I don't believe it was for a class or anything, it was just a random book (I probably wasn't aware of what the Newbery Medal was at that point) I found in the library. Anywho, I recently decided to purchase the book and re-read it. I couldn't recall much about the narrative beyond the origin of the rats and the general vibe I got from reading it. Maybe it's partially due to nostalgia, but the vibe of magic/mystery I originally got from NIMH is still there. It's definitely a page-turner, for a children's book it doesn't seem overly simplistic, the pacing is fairly brisk while the descriptions of the different characters/settings are sufficient without bogging the narrative down. The author, Robert C. O'Brien, did a great job in balancing all of these elements and readers of all ages should be able to enjoy this well crafted work.
If you liked / are interested in this, I also recommend checking out the 1982 Don Bluth film adaptation, The Secret of NIMH. Bluth takes some liberties with the plot, but more importantly he nails the aforementioned ethereal quality of the book (and with the brilliant animation perhaps expands on it in some ways). There's also a direct-to-video (...yeah) sequel, called The Secret of NIMH 2: Timmy to the Rescue (released in 1998), that seems to be universally panned (as of writing this the IMDB rating is 3.3 out of 10).
As for the product itself, if you're going to be buying this I recommend getting the Hardcover Edition. I suppose this is a matter of personal preference but I usually stick with buying hardcover books due to their superior durability and appearance. I also like the cover art (the one where a caped Mrs. Frisby is standing next to a fence/tuft of grass, in front of a barn) better than the paperback (Mrs. Frisby looks like she's going to the Kentucky Derby on that one). The print is large / clear and there are also several illustrations (I believe these are present in all editions of the book). So yeah, I'm happy with this edition but I'm sure if you look around you could find several other editions/printings.
While I was reading Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, it became evident about 3/4ths of the way through that there was a lot of potential for the story and that the foundation was strong enough to support more stories based on NIMH. Not to spoil anything, but the ending doesn't exactly neatly tie up everything that happens. This does lend a uniquely melancholic affect to the ending, and also spurs your imagination and serves to add to the overarching mysterious element that I mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, Robert C. O'Brien died in 1973 at the age of 55, 2 years after he had written NIMH, so it's difficult to say whether or not there would've been other books centered around it or if he intended the book to be a stand-alone work.
However, in 1986 there was a follow-up/sequel to Mrs.Frisby & the Rats of NIMH called Racso and the Rats of NIMH (yes, Racso, not Rasco). This book was written by Jane Leslie Conly, who is actually Robert C. O'Brien's daughter (turns out Robert C. O'Brien was the pseudonym he wrote under, his real name being Robert Leslie Conly). She also wrote a third book, titled R-T, Margaret, and the Rats of NIMH. I haven't read either of the 2 follow-ups, so I can't directly speak of their quality, but based on skimming thru a few reviews the opinions seem mixed.
So yeah, that's it for my review. Definitely check out this book plus the original film adaptation by Don Bluth, I don't think you'll be disappointed. Then if you're curious I guess check out the 2 book sequels by Conly, and finally the movie sequel if you're really desperate for NIMH related stuff (kids might not be too discerning). I'll possibly update this review after I've read/watched those.
Mrs. Frisby is a widowed mouse with four young children living in a field. Her youngest son, Timothy is very ill and unfortunately it is time to move to summer quarters before Farmer Fitzgibbon starts to plow his fields. Mrs. Frisby seeks help amongst her neighbors and is told by a wise owl to get help from the Rats. When Mrs. Frisby meets the rats, she discovers far more about them and her late husband than she had ever imagined. Will they be able to save Timothy before the plow comes?
Daniel and I both greatly enjoyed the story as did Kile as well. We had to have a discussion about it after we all finished. I fell asleep one night and couldn’t read further so Daniel took the book and finished it himself that night, I had to catch up the next day to see how it ended! It was a great heroic tale of Mrs. Frisby and her love for her children, but the entire rats sequence was very intriguing. Daniel loved finding out where they came from, but was a bit stressed out about the more suspenseful parts of the novel. We still want to know who the mysterious two rats were in the end! I really liked the ambiguous ending and the questions of ethics and morality that permeated the story.
Overall, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH is a wonderful fantasy novel that will delight readers of all ages.
Book Source: The Kewaunee Pubic Library
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Enfant, j'avais vu le dessin animé de Don Bluth (une vraie merveille) et j'avais déjà été interpellée par cette histoire de rats qui évoluent suite à d'ignobles traitements dans un laboratoire...
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