Books with author John Henry

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book. ++++ The below data was compiled from various identification fields in the bibliographic record of this title. This data is provided as an additional tool in helping to ensure edition identification: ++++ <title> Parochial And Plain Sermons; Parochial And Plain Sermons; John Henry Newman<author> John Henry Newman<publisher> Rivington, 1869<subjects> Religion; Christianity; Anglican; Religion / Christianity / Anglican; Religion / Sermons / Christian

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

Farmer Hiram Applegate had just finished breakfast. For this reason, perhaps, he felt exceptionally good-humored. Even the news he had read in his morning paper (of the day before) to the effect that his pet abomination and aversion, The Boy Scouts, had held a successful and popular review in New York and received personal commendation from the President failed to shake his equanimity.Outside the farmhouse the spring sun shone bright and warm. The air was crisp, and odorous with the scent of apple blossoms. Robins twittered cheerily, hens clucked and now and then a blue bird flashed among the orchard trees.

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

The Ocean Wireless Boys on the Pacific by John Henry GoldfrapTwenty days out from San Francisco in the vast, heaving desert of the sea, twenty days of storm, sunshine and calm, the Sea Gypsy, the great white yacht of Jacob Jukes, head of the big Atlantic and Pacific Shipping Combine, was making her way lazily through the dreamy South Seas. The vessel was capable of great speed, being known as one of the fastest craft of her kind. But she was bound on a mission which might take a long time to consummate, and economy of coal, which was piled even on her decks, to re-enforce the supply in the bunkers, was necessary.What this mission was remained, so far, a mystery to every one on board except Mr. Jukes himself, the iron-jawed and impenetrable organizer of the expedition. Up to this time he had shown no inclination to unburden himself of his secret, and although the craft was equipped with powerful wireless of the most modern type, the yacht had received no messages, nor had she sent any, under orders from Mr. Jukes.On this particular evening Jack Ready leaned against the door of the wireless-room, a converted deck cabin, and covertly watched the heavy-shouldered, bull-necked form of the millionaire shipping man as the latter gazed over the rail across the vacant waters at the gorgeous sunset.It was a true pageant of the heavens, such as is only to be seen in the Southern ocean. Great cloud-masses rose in wondrous forms, like glorified castle walls and turrets, glowing with purple and gold and red. Jack found himself following Mr. Jukes’ gaze. Although such spectacles had been almost nightly ones since they had steamed into the tropics, there was something wild and sinister about the present one that thrilled him.Captain Septimus Sparhawk, the brown, gaunt captain of the yacht, whose thin face was decorated by two little dabs of grayish whiskers forward of each ear, passed by.“Nothing to do but to look at the sky, eh?” he asked Jack, as a suspicion of a smile crept over his face.“That’s about all, sir,” rejoined Jack, with a laugh. “I expect to see spiders spinning webs on my instruments every day. I haven’t touched the key since we sailed.”The captain shook his head. He was an old and loyal employee of the shipping man, and not much given to words. But, apparently, now he felt called upon to express himself.“It’s a queer business, lad,” he said, “and it may get queerer still before we find out what it’s all about. I’m as much in the dark as you or the cabin boy. But right now that sunset worries me more than anything else.”

The Boy Aviators in Record Flight - The Rival Aeroplane by John Henry Goldfrap“Phew!” exclaimed Billy Barnes as he reported for work on the New York Planet one broiling afternoon in late August, “this is a scorcher and no mistake.”“I should think after all your marvelous adventures with the Boy Aviators that you would be so used to heat and cold and hardship that you wouldn’t kick at a little thing like a warm day.”The remark came from a young fellow about twenty-one years old who occupied a desk beside that of the stout spectacled youth of eighteen whom our readers have already met as Billy Barnes.“Why, hullo, Fred Reade!” said Billy, looking up with a good-natured grin from the operation of opening his typewriter desk, “I thought you were off covering aviation.”“I was,” rejoined the other, with a near approach to a sneer, “but since we printed your story about the recovery of the treasure on the Spanish galleon I guess they think I’m not good enough to cover the subject.”If the good-natured Billy Barnes noticed the close approach to outspoken enmity with which these words were spoken he gave no sign of it. Any reply he might have made was in fact cut short at that minute by an office boy who approached him.“Mr. Stowe wants to see you, Mr. Barnes, at once, please,” said the lad.“There you go, the managing editor sending for you as soon as you get back. I wish I was a pet,” sneered Reade as Billy hastened after the boy and the next minute entered a room screened off from the editorial department by a glass door bearing the words “Managing Editor.”At a desk above which hung “This is my busy day,” and other signs not calculated to urge visitors to become conversational, sat a heavy-set, clean-shaven man with a big pair of spectacles astride his nose. He had a fat cigar in his mouth which he regarded as he spoke with far more intensity than he did Billy.

Excerpt:Farmer Hiram Applegate had just finished breakfast. For this reason, perhaps, he felt exceptionally good-humored. Even the news he had read in his morning paper (of the day before) to the effect that his pet abomination and aversion, The Boy Scouts, had held a successful and popular review in New York and received personal commendation from the President failed to shake his equanimity.Outside the farmhouse the spring sun shone bright and warm. The air was crisp, and odorous with the scent of apple blossoms. Robins twittered cheerily, hens clucked and now and then a blue bird flashed among the orchard trees.[6]As Hiram stepped out on his “vendetta,” as he called his verandah—or, to use the old-fashioned word and the better one, “porch”—he was joined by a rather heavy-set youth with small, shifty eyes and a sallow skin which gave the impression of languishing for soap and water. A suit of loud pattern, new yellow boots with “nobby” toes, and a gaudy necktie did not add to young Jared Applegate’s general appearance.