The Avion My Uncle Flew

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PRAISE FOR
THE AVION MY UNCLE FLEW

“I can't think of many, if any, stories with such an engaging blend of suspense, thrills, mystery, humor—and, yes, I have to say: charm. Plus, giving the reader, bit by bit, a remarkably good working knowledge of French without tears. More significant, I think it shows that young people can learn a lot more and a lot sooner than one might imagine. Don't be timid about giving kids a chance to learn quickly about a great many things.” —Lloyd Alexander, French linguist and author of the Newbery Medal winner
The High King

“Full of vitality and suspense … The most ingenious feature of the book is the fascinating way in which Johnny learned to speak French. This is a wholly new idea in a story, worth of special notice.” —
The Horn Book

“[
The Avion My Uncle Flew
] is one of the few instances when the most transitory form of fiction—the mystery-adventure-spy story—makes a permanent contribution not only to boys' books but to understanding how a boy's mind works and how, on occasion, he can change it.” —
New York Herald Tribune

“Seldom do we find so happy a combination of charm of style, local color, humor and thumping good adventure as is set forth in this tale.… Highly recommended.” —
Library Journal

“A real find: a fresh and lively book, original in conception and vigorously written—sure-fire entertainment.” —
The New Yorker

“A compelling and original story … [a] book with vigor, strong action and a delightfully Gallic air.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“Over and above the fascinating story, [
The Avion My Uncle Flew
] contains an element new to children's fiction. You will probably say, as I did, ‘Why didn't someone think of this before?' Well, no one did—until now.” —
The New York Times Book Review

The Avion My Uncle Flew

Cyrus Fisher

Illustrations by Richard Floethe

O
DDLY ENOUGH
, this book about the unusual adventures of young Mr. Littlehorn last summer in France is dedicated with much affection to three young ladies whose great-grandfather came from that very same part of France:

M
ARTA
J
EHANNE

S
ARAL
D
IETER

and J
EHANNE
H
ILDEGARDE
L
EORA

CONTENTS

Foreword

1 My Father Returns

2 The Man with the Crooked Beard

3 The Bargain

4 Oncle Paul

5 Le Village de St. Chamant

6 La Maison de Ta Mère

7 The Pig of the Mayor

8 Le Trouble Vient

9 Charles Veut Voir l'Avion de Mon Oncle Paul

10 L'Avion Est Cassé

11 Monsieur Simonis Voit Charles et Moi

12 “L'Avion Est Prêt à Partir!”

13 Le Jour de la Fête

14 La Lettre

About the Author

ILLUSTRATIONS

I went out after the men to help them bring in the cattle

From the start something about him wasn't very pleasant

I didn't reply—I couldn't

I caught a glimpse of that dead white face

I heard something again rattle softly against the side window

Something flung around and smacked me in the face

It staggered out from the bushes and laid down in the clearing

Mon oncle threw le maire out of the door

We coasted down the path, a long glorious swoop of ride

Mon oncle climbed into the cockpit, in between the wings

We stole along through those gravestones, hearing the wind come sighing to us

We crossed the creek, the water wetting us to the skin

That blind peddler—I thought I saw him bending over me—and he wasn't wearing his glasses!

We saw mon oncle land. Three men from the black limousine ran to him

FOREWORD

I don't expect you to believe every word that is laid down in the following pages, because now and then, perhaps, the truth has been stretched a little, here and there; and, between Johnny Littlehorn and me, we might have kicked up a trifle more dust in spots than may have actually existed. I wouldn't want to have to swear that everything contained is the pure gospel. However, you might like to know about that airplane or glider—or “avion” as the people in that part of France claimed it was supposed to be called. I'll leave it up to you to decide if Johnny Littlehorn did do what he allowed he did with it. That's for between you and him. But one thing I do know and can swear to—I saw a glider something like Johnny's take off from that very same mountain, and about the same sort of thing happened that Johnny claimed happened to his glider. I can testify to that; I can testify, because I was there. I was in that glider. It happened to me. If it happened to me it ought to be able to happen to Johnny. In addition to this testifying, I think Johnny Littlehorn would like to have me thank Miss Edna Wilbur, of Mountain View High School, Mountain View, California. Miss Wilbur spent time going over this book and where Johnny or I (I'm not going to try to explain here how I got mixed up in it) made mistakes in some of the words she was good enough and kind enough to give us a lift, and set us dead to rights.

C
YRUS
F
ISHER

1

MY FATHER RETURNS

My father says I should write down all about what happened to me last summer when I got planted in that little French mountain town which was probably one of the awfulest sells in the world because nobody there ever had learned a proper language to speak—I mean, a language like the kind of language you and I and sensible folks speak. These Frenchmen in this little French town didn't know any better than to speak something they called French.

It all started early last summer just after the war in Europe ended. My father had been away for three years. My mother tried to manage the ranch while my father was away fighting. It wasn't very easy for my mother to do that. You see, my mother is French; she was born in France. She came over here to school where my father met her. She never had much experience with ranches or cattle or horses until my father took her out here to Wyoming.

All the same, while my father was away in Europe my mother did what she could to keep the ranch going. We had old Jake Tolliver to help. He is our foreman. He'd been on the ranch when my grandfather was alive. Without Jake, I suspect, we'd never been able to keep the ranch. A year and a half ago I was twelve. That winter we had a lot of snow. Except for Jake and a couple of the older men there was hardly anyone left on the ranch. I knew my mother was worried. So one Saturday, right after the big snow, I figured I was old enough to start earning my keep, especially while my father was away. I saddled up my pony. I went out after the men to help them bring in the cattle from the east range, where the drifts were high.

I don't know exactly what happened. Maybe it was colder than I thought. Later, old Jake told me they'd had men out looking for me before my pony came in. Luckily, it had stopped snowing. They traced back on the pony's tracks and got me into the house before midnight. By and by when I woke up I found I wasn't frozen to death after all but something was wrong with my left leg. I must have fallen off the pony when I got cold and sleepy and didn't know what I was doing; and I evidently hit a fence post or something sticking up through the snow.

Well, they had the doctor drive out from Piedmont. He set my leg. A month later he came back. He had to set my leg again, because something still was wrong. My mother kept me home from school.

Then, in the spring, my mother took me down to Salt Lake City where they have important doctors. Here, they made more X-rays of my leg. I was worried because I didn't know then whether I'd ever be able to run or play football or ride a bicycle like the one my friend Bob Collins had bought. Bob'd bought a wonderful second-hand bicycle and painted it red. Probably it was about the fastest thing in the whole country. Ponies are common as dirt in the part of Wyoming where I live, but you don't come often across red bicycles with a high gear and a low gear like the one Bob Collins owned. It had seemed to me it was the most gaudy bicycle in the world and I pestered my mother to get me one like it.

She explained that right now things were hard on the ranch. That was why, to be honest, I'd wanted to help, thinking maybe if they had another man working on the ranch, such as me, why, things would get enough better for me to have a bicycle like the one Bob Collins owned, with a high gear and a low gear. The low gear was for climbing montagnes—as the French call mountains—and the high gear was for racing.