Books with title Hard Face Moon

Hides Inside is thirteen winters—old enough to yearn to be a warrior. His brother, Standing Tall, has given him the first lesson, “A Cheyenne does not fight his own people.” Not even when other boys taunt him because he cannot speak.On a dim night during the season of the hard face moon, Hides Inside witnesses the unprovoked attack on the Cheyenne that came to be known as the Sand Creek Massacre. His determination to join a warrior society is hardened, but will he follow Standing Tall in the ways of peace?

On November 29, 1864, a village of Cheyenne and Arapaho encamped along Sand Creek in the southeastern Colorado Territory was attacked by Colorado Territory militia under the command of Colonel John Chivington. An estimated 150 to 200 Native Americans were killed, nearly all of them elderly men, women, and children. Nancy Oswald, author of the acclaimed young adult novel Nothing Here But Stones, uses the horrific events at Sand Creek as a shattering climax for the story of Hides Inside, a young Cheyenne unable to speak and struggling to gain acceptance as he grows to manhood and seeks to become a warrior. "Hard Face Moon is a heartrending story of broken promises, close to the earth and sky and to the heart of the Cheyenne people. It is an important look at one of the most shameful events in the history of the American West." Mary Peace Finley Author of the Santa Fe Trail Trilogy: Soaring Eagle, White Grizzly, and Meadow Lark "Hard Face Moon is an exciting and enlightening read for ages 10 and up. Through the eyes of a 13- year-old Cheyenne boy and his friends, Nancy Oswald tells the sorrowful story of the Sand Creek Massacre." Patrick Mendoza, Storyteller/Singer Author of Song of Sorrow: the Massacre at Sand Creek

John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time.

Original blue pictorial cloth decorated in cream, pale green, and gilt, octavo, 273 pp + 4pp adverts. Top edge gilt. INSCRIBED AND SIGNED BY JACK LONDON to his close friend Johannes Reimers: "Dear Johannes: And there isn't a detestable Indian within the covers of this book. Now will you be good? But I know you won't because–well, because you are Johannes, and because the quality of your gray matter is no improvement upon that of the ancient Greeks. With love, Jack London. Glen Ellen, Calif. Oct. 3, 1906." Johannes Reimers was a Norwegian-American writer and artist who first met Jack at a 1902 birthday party given for Jack by Anna Strunsky. See Charmian London's "The Book of Jack London" volume 1, page 368 for a detailed account of this first meeting. Reimers much later designed the landscaping surrounding the Londons' doomed Wolf House. "BAL 11895, Sisson/Martens page 28. 8400 copies printed in the first edition.

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time. Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse.

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John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. Youknow the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin andforehead melting into the cheeks to complete theperfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy,equidistant from the circumference, flattened againstthe very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon theceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly hehad become an offense to my eyes, and I believed theearth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps mymother may have been superstitious of the moon andlooked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrongtime.

MOON-FACEJohn Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time.Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse.