Mr Flinch hates noise. His neighbours in Noisy Neighbours, a mechanic and a music teacher, can't help making a racket. Mr Flinch plots to get rid of them... TreeTops Fiction contains engaging novels from top authors and illustrators with the variety children need to develop a love of reading!

The invisible man is the unnamed narrator of this impassioned novel of black lives in 1940s America. Embittered by a country which treats him as a non-being he retreats to an underground cell.

In Jellyfish Shoes, Laura is very proud of her new jelly shoes. They are pink and see-through like raspberry jelly. When Scott tells her they are made of jellyfish, she changes her mind about the shoes. TreeTops Fiction contains engaging novels from top authors and illustrators with the variety children need to develop a love of reading!

Original publication and copyright date: 2009.

The bestselling author of Encyclopedia an Ordinary Life returns with a literary experience that is unprecedented, unforgettable, and explosively human. Ten years after her beloved, groundbreaking Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, #1 New York Times bestselling author Amy Krouse Rosenthal delivers a book full of her distinct blend of nonlinear narrative, wistful reflections, and insightful wit. It is a mighty, life-affirming work that sheds light on all the ordinary and extraordinary ways we are connected. Like she did with Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, Amy Krouse Rosenthal ingeniously adapts a standard format—a textbook, this time—to explore life’s lessons and experiences into a funny, wise, and poignant work of art. Not exactly a memoir, not just a collection of observations, Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal is a beautiful exploration into the many ways we are connected on this planet and speaks to the awe, bewilderment, and poignancy of being alive. “…a groundbreaking new twist on the traditional literary experience… Textbook is a delightful collection of interesting scenarios that directly point to life lessons. Rosenthal manages to spotlight grand moments and everyday moments with equal curiosity, proving that it can be both a privilege — and petrifying — to peek into one’s humanity.”—Associated Press “Rosenthal is a marvel… a talented storyteller with an experimental flair for formatting… This engaging, playful, and clever glimpse into one woman’s life offers lots of photographs, graphic illustrations, and diagrams, resulting in a book that will make readers smile as their notions of story delivery expand.” —Booklist

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. HeathcliffÕs dwelling. ÔWutheringÕ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones. Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date Ô1500,Õ and the name ÔHareton Earnshaw.Õ I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium. One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here Ôthe houseÕ pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.