Download The Ordinary Princess by M. M. Kaye PDF
By M. M. Kaye
In addition to Wit, allure, overall healthiness, and braveness, Princess Amy of Phantasmorania gets a distinct fairy christening reward: Ordinariness. in contrast to her six appealing sisters, she has brown hair and freckles, and could really have adventures than play the harp, embroider tapestries . . . or turn into a Queen. while her royal mom and dad try and marry her off, Amy runs away and, simply because she's so traditional, simply turns into the fourteenth assistant kitchen maid at a neighboring palace. And there . . . a lot to everyone's shock . . . she meets a prince simply as usual (and particular) as she is!
"This pleasant fairy story is certain to delight younger romantics . . . Neither Kaye's princess nor her booklet may be thought of ordinary." (School Library Journal)
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Extra resources for The Ordinary Princess
Sample text
I knew this was going to happen,” said the Prime Minister glumly as he went off to look up the price of hiring dragons. A week went past, and then one day, when the Ordinary Princess was playing by herself in the forest, she met a party of girls from the city of Phanff who had come to the forest to picnic and gather bluebells. The Ordinary Princess had taken off her shoes and stockings and tucked up her gown above her knees to keep it out of the damp moss, and no one would ever have suspected her of being a Royal Highness!
As she lay there, she sang to herself a nursery rhyme that her ladies-in-waiting used to sing to her when she was a little girl. ” No one listening to her would have realized, from her lighthearted singing, what a very great deal of trouble she was causing. For while the Ordinary Princess lay on her back and sang songs among the bluebells, her father the King was attending an Extra Specially Important Meeting of the Council of State, summoned to discuss the question of the marriage of his last and youngest unmarried daughter.
PZ8. com For my granddaughter Mollie Miranda Kaye Foreword by the Author This story was written many moons ago under an apple tree in an orchard in Kent, which is one of England’s prettiest counties. It was springtime and I was staying with a school friend whose parents owned an old manor house that was full of pictures and books: books for grown-ups and books for children. Among the latter I was delighted to discover some that I knew well, for I had once had a whole set of these myself, only to lose them when a London warehouse, in which most of our family belongings had been stored after my father died, caught fire and burned to the ground.