Guided Reading: Reading between the lines at Key Stage 2 - PowerPoint Presentation

Guided Reading: Reading between the lines at Key Stage 2

KS2 Expected standard in reading

KS2 Reading content domains

Emphasis on fiction Reading characters: Appearance Personality Behaviour Reactions/comparison How they speak & what they say Interactions with other characters

Emphasis on fiction Reading setting Description Use of language Tension Action/dialogue How the setting changes/comparison Turning point/sequencing

‘Stuart Little’ E.B. White When Mrs Frederick C. Little’s second son arrived, everybody noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse. The truth of the matter was, the baby looked very much like a mouse in every way. He was only about two inches high; and he had a mouse’s sharp nose, a mouse’s tail, a mouse’s whiskers and the pleasant, shy manner of a mouse. Before he was many days old he was not only looking like a mouse but acting like one, too – wearing a grey hat and carrying a small cane. Mr and Mrs Little named him Stuart, and Mr Little made him a tiny bed out of four clothespins and a cigarette box.

‘Stuart Little’ E.B. White In the loveliest town of all, where the houses were white and high and the elm trees were green and higher than the houses, where the front yards were wide and pleasant and the back yards were bushy and worth finding out about, where the streets sloped down to the stream and the stream flowed quietly under the bridge, where the lawns ended in orchards and the orchards ended in fields and the fields ended in pastures and the pastures climbed the hill and disappeared over the top toward the wonderful wide sky, to this loveliest of all towns Stuart stopped to get a drink of sarsaparilla.

‘Billionaire Boy’ David Walliams ‘Sorry I’m late, I was just at the tanning salon,’ she announced. This was evident. Sapphire had fake tan smeared over every inch of her skin. She was now orange. As orange as an orange, if not orangier . Think of the orangiest person you’ve ever met, then times their orangeness by ten. As if she didn’t look frightful enough already, she was wearing a lime green mini-dress and clutching a shocking pink handbag.

‘Billionaire Boy’ David Walliams The house was so large it was visible from outer space. It took five minutes just to motor up the drive. Hundreds of newly-planted, hopeful little trees lined the mile-long gravel track. The house had seven kitchens, twelve sitting rooms, forty-seven bedrooms and eighty-nine bathrooms. Even the bathrooms had en -suite bathrooms. And some of those en -suite bathrooms had en - en -suite bathrooms. Despite living there for a few years, Joe had probably only ever explored around a quarter of the main house. In the endless grounds were tennis courts, a boating lake, a helipad and even a 100m ski-slope complete with mountains of fake snow. All the taps, door handles and even toilet seats were solid gold. The carpets were made from mink fur, he and his dad drank orange squash from priceless antique medieval goblets, and fir a while they had a butler called Otis who was also an orang-utan . But he had to be given the sack.

‘The Family from One End Street’ Eve Garnett ‘Where did you get those, Ted!’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Ah! Wouldn’t you like to know,’ said Ted teasingly. ‘Hi Bill!’ he called to his brother, ‘here’s Kate Ruggles , what knows everything, wants to know where we gets our mushrooms!’ Bill regarded Kate in silence for a moment, then a broad grin spread over his face. ‘You get up early, and look for yourself,’ he said, and they both laughed and ran off shaking the empty baskets after her as they went. Rude pig boys were, thought Kate, but she’d be even with them, and screwing up her courage she went into the shop and asked the young lady in charge how much the mushrooms were.

‘The Family from One End Street’ Eve Garnett It was very peaceful lying in the pipe drifting down the river to the soothing thud-thud of the engines. Very soon Otwell was far behind, and they were sailing between water meadows where horses and cows were grazing. The sun shone, but a sharp breeze blew from the coast, and after half an hour or so, in spite of the sack, Jim began to feel rather chilly and very stiff. Presently the water-meadows gave place to marshland and sea birds flew screaming overhead, the barge began to rock a little, and he judged they must be getting near the mouth of the river. In the far distance he could see the houses and factory chimneys and the tall masts of ships. The river curved in and out between the marshes for several miles; it was wider now and the rocking increased. Jim began to feel just a tiny bit sick.

‘Operation Gadgetman !’ Malorie Blackman ‘What’s a … a special two-way pencil?’ Jessica asked. ‘Half of it is a normal graphite pencil,’ Beans explained. ‘The other half has got specially treated wax down the middle. When you write with the wax end it doesn’t show up until you do special things to it. It’s all in the instruction book.’ ‘And are all the spy kits the same?’ asked Stephen. Beans nodded. ‘Can I have one?’ Stephen asked eagerly. ‘And me…’ ‘Me too…’ ‘I don’t know if Dad’s got any more,’ Beans added quickly. No way did she want the whole class camping out in her front garden.

‘Operation Gadgetman !’ Malorie Blackman Beans thought that the search would take forever, but Gran had beaten them to Dad’s workroom and tidied that as well! Boxes of the same components were stacked neatly side by side against the wall. Screwdrivers were arranged in order of size on the worktable. Miscellaneous components were held in one large box. The broom leaned self-consciously against the wall by the window, and Dad’s latest gadgets – the animal crunchies shaped like various animals or insects – were in a box by themselves.

‘Annie’ Thomas Meehan In the back of the truck, Annie had huddled inside the laundry bag without moving for about five minutes, waiting until the truck was far enough away from the orphanage for her to make her break. Now she wriggled out of the smothering bag and stood up in the dark back of the truck as it rumbled along a bumpy street. After a time, the truck came to a jerking halt, stopping for a red light, and Annie opened the back door a crack and peered out. The truck was stopped at the corner of Third Avenue and East 14th Street. Quickly, Annie hopped out, slammed the door behind her and ran off along East 14th Street, in a moment disappearing into the crowds thronging the sidewalks that led to Union Square. Annie was free. Free – but alone, with no money and no place to live, in the middle of New York City on a chilly January morning. Still, thought Annie, pulling her sweater tightly around her as the cold wind snapped, she’d at least begun her search for her lost father and mother.

‘Annie’Thomas Meehan ‘ Bringin ’ me the wonderful news that one of the orphans from here, Annie – oh, God, how I hate that miserable kid – is getting’ adopted by Warbucks ,’ said Miss Hannigan bitterly. ‘She’s gonna have everything. That rotten orphan is gonna have everything.’ ‘Crummy orphan, livin ’ in the lap of luxury, it ain’t fair,’ said Lily. ‘No, it ain’t fair,’ Rooster agreed. ‘But listen, sis, if an orphan from here is that close to bigtime dough, there’s gotta be a way we can cut ourselves a piece of it.’ ‘Yeah, sure, but how?’ asked Miss Hannigan. ‘I don’t know… yet.’ replied Rooster with a sinister grin. ‘But there’s gotta be a way. Gotta be. And I’ll think of one. Even if we have to, you know, kidnap this Annie and knock her off.’ Now, Miss Hannigan, Rooster and Lily huddled together, whispering, trying to come up with a plan to make themselves money out of Annie’s involvement with Oliver Warbucks . And although Annie had no way of knowing it as she splashed around in Mr Warbuck’s pool. Her life was suddenly and frighteningly in danger.

‘How to fight a dragon’s fury’ Cressida Cowell It was the darkest hour that humanity had ever faced, and a terrible doom had come upon the Archipelago. Once, not so very long ago, these little green islands had been bustling and full of life, with a cosy little village nestled in every hilltop. Now, those same villages were blasted to smithereens, and even the scorched hills themselves had great bites torn out of them, mountainside up-ended, rivers re-routed, trees turned upside-down with the sap weeping out of them, and great gouges in the face of the earth caused by the raking of angry dragons.

‘How to fight a dragon’s fury’ Cressida Cowell He could just use the power of the Jewel to destroy the dragons forever… Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock went the ticking thing, swinging from Alvin’s waist belt, ticking down the minutes until Alvin was crowned King. Would it be the humans or the dragons who survived? Both camps were ready now. Both knew that before this day was over, numberless unlucky ones among them would die on the battlefield, just as they imagined Hiccup had done the day before, and they would not all be opening their eyes on another day tomorrow. Watching, waiting. Only a few more hours now. They knew that it was Doomsday. But Doomsday for whom?

‘Room 13’ Robert Swindells Nobody had missed her, and when the swimming party set out twenty minutes later old Sal had gone. The rain-lashed streets were practically deserted and when they got to the pool they found that they had it almost to themselves. They made the most of it, leaping and splashing and whooping in the warm, clear water under Mrs Evans’ watchful gaze. A puzzled frown settled for a moment on the teacher’s face when she noticed four of the children standing by the steps at the shallow end, taking no part in the revelry. Odd, she mused. Very odd. You’d think they were non-swimmers or something, but they’re not. Still, it’s up to them, isn’t it? Perhaps they’re tired from the walk today. Her eyes moved on, and the frown dissolved.

‘Tins’ Alex Shearer It could have been stamps. It could have been stickers, or postcards or model airplanes, or the free gifts in cereal packets. It could have been pictures of footballers. It could even have been fossils, or film posters or bargains from eBay. It could have been science fiction stuff. It could have been coins. It could have been autographs of famous people. But it wasn’t. It was tins. And the only explanation for them seemed to be that Fergal Bamfield was clever.

‘Tins’Alex Shearer Fergal was in his room; the tin sat on his desk, shiny and silver and full of secrets. Sometimes he picked it up and weighed it in his hand. It felt heavy. So what did that mean? Did that give any indication as to the nature of its contents? No. Not really. Sometimes he held it to his ear and shook it, listening out for the sound of liquid moving about inside. That would mean it was soup. Or maybe not. Maybe it would mean it was tinned mandarin oranges. But there was no slushing sound at all. What could it be then? Something nice? Something nasty? It only needed a tin-opener to find out. And yet… why open it straight away?

‘Charlotte’s Web’ E.B. White Wilbur liked Charlotte better and better each day. Her campaign against insects seemed sensible and useful. Hardly anyone around the farm had a good word to say for a fly. Flies spent their time pestering others. The cows hated them. The horses detested them. The sheep loathed them. Mr and Mrs Zuckerman were always complaining about them, and putting up screens. Wilbur admired the way Charlotte managed. He was particularly glad that she always put her victim to sleep before eating it. ‘It’s real thoughtful of you to do that, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ she replied in her sweet, musical voice, ‘I always give them an anesthetic so they won’t feel pain. It’s a little service I throw in.’

‘Charlotte’s Web’ E.B. White The seven goslings paraded round and round their mother. ‘Please, please, please take us to the Fair!’ begged a gosling. Then all seven began teasing to go. ‘Please, please, please, please, please, please…’ They made quite a racket. ‘Children!’ snapped the goose. ‘We’re staying qietly-ietly-ietly at home. Only Wilbur- ilbur - ilbur is going to the Fair.’ Just then Charlotte interrupted. ‘I shall go, too,’ she said softly. ‘I have decided to go with Wilbur.’

‘Roll of thunder, hear my cry’ Mildred Taylor My father was a master storyteller. He could tell a fine old story that made me hold my sides with rolling laughter and sent happy tears down my cheeks, or a story of stark reality that made me shiver and be grateful for my own warm, secure surroundings. By the fireside in our northern home or in the South where I was born, I learned a history not then written in books but one passed from generation to generation on the steps of moonlit porches and beside dying fires in one-room houses, a history of great-grandparents and of slavery and of the days following slavery; of those who lived still not free, yet who would not let their spirits be enslaved. From my father the storyteller I learned to respect the past, to respect my own heritage and myself.

‘Roll of thunder, hear my cry’ Mildred Taylor ‘Cassie, what’s the matter with you girl?’ Big Ma asked as she thrust three sticks of dried pine into the stove to rekindle the dying morning fire. ‘You sure are takin’ a sorrowful long time to churn that butter.’ ‘ Nothin ’,’ I muttered. ‘ Nothin ’?’ Big Ma turned and looked directly at me. ‘You been mopin ’ ‘round here for the past week like you got the whoopin ’ cough, flu and measles all put together.’ I sighed deeply and continued to churn. Mama studied me with the same disturbed look Big Ma wore and a tiny frown line appeared on her brow. ‘Cassie,’ she said softly, fixing her dark eyes upon me, ‘is there something you want to tell me?’

‘Wonder’ R.J. Palacio I know I’m not an ordinary ten-year-old-kid. I mean, sure, I do ordinary things. I eat ice cream. I ride my bike. I play ball. I have an Xbox. Stuff like that makes me ordinary I guess. And I feel ordinary. Inside. But I know ordinary kids don’t make other ordinary kids run away screaming in playgrounds. I know ordinary kids don’t get stared at wherever they go. My name is August, by the way. I won’t describe what I look like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.

‘Wonder’R.J. Palacio ‘Jack, this is very, very serious,’ Mr Tushman was saying. ‘This is so not like you, Jack,’ said Mom. ‘I thought you and Julian were friends.’ ‘’We’re not friends,’ I said. ‘But to punch someone in the mouth, Jack? said Mom, raising her voice. ‘You knocked a tooth out, did you know that? asked Mr Tushman . ‘It was just a baby tooth,’ I said. ‘Jack!’ said Mom, shaking her head. ‘That’s what Nurse Molly said!’ ‘You’re missing the point!’ Mom yelled. ‘I just want to know why,’ said Mr Tushman , raising his shoulders. I shrugged but I didn’t say anything. I just couldn’t. If I told him that Julian had called August a freak, then he’d go talk to Julian about it, then Julian would tell him how I had bad-mouthed August too, and everybody would find out about it.

‘A Monster Calls’ Patrick Ness He’d told no one about the nightmare. Not his mum, obviously, but no one else either, not his dad in their fortnightly (or so) phone call, definitely not his grandma, and no one at school. Absolutely not. What happened in the nightmare was something no one else ever needed to know. Conor blinked groggily at his room, then he frowned. There was something he was missing. He sat up in his bed, waking a bit more. The nightmare was slipping from him, but there was something he couldn’t put his finger on, something different, something - He listened, straining against the silence, but all he could hear was the quiet house around him, the occasional tick from the empty downstairs or a rustle of bedding from his mum’s room next door. Nothing. And then something. Something he realised was the thing that had woken him. Someone was calling his name. Conor .

‘A Monster Calls’ Patrick Ness Conor’s grandma wasn’t like other grandmas. He’d met Lily’s grandma loads of times and she was how grandmas were supposed to be: crinkly and smiley, with white hair and the whole lot. She cooked meals where she made three separate eternally boiled vegetable portions for everybody and would giggle in the corner at Christmas with a small glass of sherry and a paper crown on her head. Conor’s grandma wore tailored trouser suits, dyed her hair to keep out the grey and said things that made no sense at all, like ‘Sixty is the new fifty’ or ‘Classic cars need the most expensive polish.’ What did that even mean? She emailed birthday cards, would argue with waiters over wine and still had a job. Her house was even worse, filled with expensive old things you could never touch, like a clock she wouldn’t even let the cleaning lady dust. Which was another thing. What kind of grandma had a cleaning lady? ‘Two sugars, no milk,’ she called from the sitting room as Conor made the tea. As if he didn’t know that from the last three thousand times she’d visited.

‘My sister lives on the mantelpiece’ Annabel Pitcher My sister Rose lives on the mantelpiece. Well, some of her does. Three of her fingers, her right elbow and her kneecaps are buried in a graveyard in London. Mum and Dad had a big argument when the police found ten bits of her body. Mum wanted a grave that she could visit. Dad wanted a cremation and to sprinkle the ashes in the sea. That’s what Jasmine told me anyway. She remembers more than I do. I was only five when it happened. Jasmine was ten. She was Rose’s twin. Still is according to Mum and Dad.

‘My sister lives on the mantelpiece’ Annabel Pitcher We moved out of London to get away from it all. Dad knew someone who knew someone who rung him up about a job on a building site in the Lake District. It’s so different here. There are massive mountains that are tall enough to poke God up the bum, hundreds of trees, and it’s quiet. No people I said, as we found a cottage down a twisty lane and I looked out of the window for somebody to play with. No Muslims Dad corrected me, smiling for the first time that day. Me and Jas didn’t smile back as we got out of the car.

‘The Year of the Rat’ Clare Furniss The traffic light glows red through the rainy windscreen, blurred, clear, blurred again, as the wipers swish to and fro. Below it, in front of us, is the hearse. I try not to look at it. My hands fidget as though they don’t belong to me. Picking at a loose thread on my sleeve, stretching my skirt down so that it covers more of my legs. Why did I wear it? It’s way too short for a funeral. The silence is making me panicky, but I can’t think of anything to say. I sneak a sideways look at Dad, his face blank and still as a mask. What’s he thinking? About Mum? Maybe he’s just trying to find something to say, like me? ‘You should do your seat belt up,’ I say at last, too loud. He starts and looks at me in surprise, as though he’s forgotten I was there.