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  • Elsie's Young Folks in Peace and War

    Martha Finley

    language (Transcript, Aug. 8, 2016)
    Elsie's Young Folks in Peace and War by Martha FinleyMartha Finley (April 26, 1828 – January 30, 1909) was a teacher and author of numerous works, the most well known being the 28 volume Elsie Dinsmore series which was published over a span of 38 years. The daughter of Presbyterian minister Dr. James Brown Finley and his wife and cousin Maria Theresa Brown Finley, she was born on April 26, 1828, in Chillicothe, Ohio. Finley wrote many of her books under the pseudonym Martha Farquharson. It was a lovely summer day, bright and clear, but the heat so tempered—there on the coast of Maine—by the delicious sea breeze that it was delightful and exhilarating. The owner and passengers of the Dolphin had forsaken her more than a fortnight ago, and since spent their days and nights at a lovely villa on shore there in Bar Harbor; but now no longer able to resist the attractions of the beautiful sea, the most of them had come aboard, and were sitting, standing, or roaming about the deck."Oh, I'm so glad to be in our own dear sea home again!" cried Elsie Raymond. "Aren't you, Ned?""Yes; though we have been having a splendid time on shore in Bar Harbor.""Yes, so we have; but as we expect to be back again in a few days, we needn't fret at all about leaving it.""No, nor we needn't if we were just going back to Woodburn, our own beautiful home—certainly a better place than this in fall and winter, anyhow.""But I'm glad to have a sail again," said Elsie."Brother Max says we'll soon see some places where they had sea fights in our two wars with England," remarked Ned, with satisfaction."Oh, does he? I mean to ask papa or grandma to tell us about them," exclaimed Elsie, in tones of excitement."Oh, yes, let's!" cried Ned. "But the men are taking up the anchor," he added hastily, "and I must see that first. Come," catching his sister's hand and hurrying her along to a good position from which to view the operation.
  • Red Fox

    Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts, Charles Livingston Bull

    eBook (Transcript, Feb. 3, 2016)
    Red Fox - The Story of His Adventurous Career in the Ringwaak Wilds and of His Final Triumph over the Enemies of His Kind by Sir Charles G. D. RobertsSir Charles George Douglas Roberts, KCMG FRSC (January 10, 1860 – November 26, 1943) was a Canadian poet and prose writer who is known as the Father of Canadian Poetry. He was "almost the first Canadian author to obtain worldwide reputation and influence; he was also a tireless promoter and encourager of Canadian literature. He published numerous works on Canadian exploration and natural history, verse, travel books, and fiction." "At his death he was regarded as Canada's leading man of letters."Besides his own body of work, Roberts is also called the "Father of Canadian Poetry" because he served as an inspiration and a source of assistance for other Canadian poets of his time.Roberts, his cousin Bliss Carman, Archibald Lampman and Duncan Campbell Scott are known as the Confederation Poets. In the following story I have tried to trace the career of a fox of the backwoods districts of Eastern Canada. The hero of the story, Red Fox, may be taken as fairly typical, both in his characteristics and in the experiences that befall him, in spite of the fact that he is stronger and cleverer than the average run of foxes. This fact does not detract from his authenticity as a type of his kind. He simply represents the best, in physical and mental development, of which the tribe of the foxes has shown itself capable. In a litter of young foxes there is usually one that is larger and stronger, and of more finely coloured fur, than his fellows. There is not infrequently, also, one that proves to be much more sagacious and adaptable than his fellows. Once in awhile such exceptional strength and such exceptional intelligence may be combined in one individual. This combination is apt to result in just such a fox as I have made the hero of my story.The incidents in the career of this particular fox are not only consistent with the known characteristics and capacities of the fox family, but there is authentic record of them all in the accounts of careful observers. Every one of these experiences has befallen some red fox in the past, and may befall other red foxes in the future. There is no instance of intelligence, adaptability, or foresight given here that is not abundantly attested by the observations of persons who know how to observe accurately. In regard to such points, I have been careful to keep well within the boundaries of fact. As for any emotions which Red Fox may once in a great while seem to display, these may safely be accepted by the most cautious as fox emotions, not as human emotions. In so far as man is himself an animal, he is subject to and impelled by many emotions which he must share with not a few other members of the animal kingdom. Any full presentation of an individual animal of one of the more highly developed species must depict certain emotions not altogether unlike those which a human being might experience under like conditions. To do this is not by any means, as some hasty critics would have it, to ascribe human emotions to the lower animals.
  • The Tale of Two Bad Mice

    Beatrix Potter

    eBook (Transcript, Aug. 3, 2014)
    The Tale of Two Bad Mice by Beatrix PotterHelen Beatrix Potter (28 July 1866 – 22 December 1943) was an English author, illustrator, natural scientist and conservationist best known for her imaginative children's books, featuring animals such as those in The Tale of Peter Rabbit, which celebrated the British landscape and country life.One morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the doll's perambulator. There was no one in the nursery, and it was very quiet. Presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a corner near the fire-place, where there was a hole under the skirting-board.Tom Thumb put out his head for a moment, and then popped it in again.Tom Thumb was a mouse.
    M
  • Soldiering in North Carolina

    Thomas Kirwan

    eBook (Transcript, July 14, 2015)
    Soldiering in North Carolina by Thomas KirwanTHE EXPERIENCES OF A 'TYPO' IN THE PINES, SWAMPS, FIELDS, SANDY ROADS, TOWNS, CITIES, AND MONG THE FLEAS, WOOD-TICKS, 'GRAY-BACKS,' MOSQUITOES, BLUE-TAIL FLIES, MOCCASIN SNAKES, LIZARDS, SCORPIONS, REBELS, AND OTHER REPTILES, PESTS AND VERMIN OF THE 'OLD NORTH STATE.'EMBRACING AN ACCOUNT OF THE THREE-YEARS AND NINE-MONTHS MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENTS IN THE DEPARTMENT, THE FREEDMEN ETC., ETC., ETC.The contents of the following pages are presented to the public as matters of fact. They embody some of the writer's experiences while serving his country in the "land of cotton." It is true his experiences are tame and unromantic when compared with those of some of the men of the Potomac or the Cumberland; but they are the best he can offer, and need no apology, as the style does, which is rough and unpolished.Besides giving an account of the 17th Mass. Reg't, and its participation in the engagements at Kinston, Whitehall, and Goldsboro, something is said of the other old regiments in the department, and the nine months' men,—also, an account of the contrabands, their habits and disposition—anecdotes, &c.
  • In The Days of Giants

    Abbie Farwell Brown, E. Boyd Smith

    eBook (Transcript, April 27, 2014)
    In The Days of Giants - A Book of Norse Tales by Abbie Farwell BrownNOW I LIKE A REALLY GOOD SAGA, ABOUT GODS AND GIANTS, AND THE FIRE KINGDOMS, AND THE SNOW KINGDOMS, AND THE ÆSIR MAKING MEN AND WOMEN OUT OF TWO STICKS, AND ALL THAT.The oldest stories of every race of people tell about the Beginning of Things. But the various folk who first told them were so very different, the tales are so very old, and have changed so greatly in the telling from one generation to another, that there are almost as many accounts of the way in which the world began as there are nations upon the earth. So it is not strange that the people of the North have a legend of the Beginning quite different from that of the Southern, Eastern, and Western folk.This book is made of the stories told by the Northern folk,—the people who live in the land of the midnight sun, where summer is green and pleasant, but winter is a terrible time of cold and gloom; where rocky mountains tower like huge giants, over whose heads the thunder rolls and crashes, and under2 whose feet are mines of precious metals. Therefore you will find the tales full of giants and dwarfs,—spirits of the cold mountains and dark caverns.
  • The Call of the South

    Robert Lee Durham, Henry Ling Roth

    eBook (Transcript, July 25, 2014)
    The Call of the South by Robert Lee DurhamThe President had called upon the Governors for troops; and the brilliantly lighted armory was crowded with the citizen-soldiers who followed the standards of the 71st Ohio, waiting for the bugle to call them to order for the simple and formal ceremony of declaring their desire to answer the President's call.A formal and useless ceremony surely: for it was a foregone conclusion that this gallant old regiment, with its heroic record in two wars, would volunteer to a man. It was no less certain that, presenting unbroken ranks of willing soldiers, it would be the first selected by the Governor to assist Uncle Sam's regulars in impressing upon the Kaiser the length and breadth and thickness of the Monroe Doctrine.For many bothersome years the claimant nations had abided by the Hague Tribunal's award, though with evidently decreasing patience because of Venezuela's lame compliance with it. Three changes of government and dwindling revenues had made the collection of the indebtedness by the agent of the claimants more and more difficult. Finally on the 6th of January, 191-, Señor Emilio Mañana executed his coup d'état, overthrew the existing government, declared himself Protector of Venezuela, and "for the people of Venezuela repudiated every act and agreement of the spurious governments of the last decade," seized the customs, and gave the agent of the creditor allies his passports in a manner more effective than ceremonious: all of this with his weather eye upon the Monroe Doctrine and a Washington administration in some need of a rallying cry and a diverting issue.The Kaiser's patience was exhausted, and his army and navy were in the pink of condition. On the 10th of January his ministers informed the allies that their most august sovereign would deal henceforth with Venezuela as might seem to him best to protect Germany's interests and salve the Empire's honour.In less than a week the President sent to Congress a crisp message, saying that the Kaiser and the great doctrine were in collision. The Senate resolution declaring war was adopted after being held up long enough to permit fifty-one Senators to embalm their patriotism in the Congressional Record, and, being sent to the House, was concurred in in ten minutes after the clerk began to read the preamble.The country was a-tremble with the thrill and excitement of a man who is preparing to go against an antagonist worthy of his mettle, and in the 71st's armory a crowd of people jammed the balconies to the last inch. The richly varicoloured apparel of the women, in vivid contrast to the sombre walls of the armory, the kaleidoscopic jumble and whirl of soldiers in dress uniforms on the floor, the frequent outbursts of hand-clapping and applause as favourite officers of the regiment were recognized by the galleries, the surging and unceasing din and hubbub of the shouting and gesticulating mass of people on floor and balcony, gave the scene a holiday air which really belied the feelings of the greater number both of soldiers and onlookers. There was a serious thought in almost every mind: but serious thoughts are not welcome at such times to a man who has already decided to tender his life to his country, nor to the woman who knows that she must say good-bye to him on the morrow. So they both try to overwhelm unwelcome reflections by excited chatter and patriotic enthusiasm. They will think of to-morrow when it comes: let the clamour go on.
  • Gods and Heroes: or The Kingdom of Jupiter

    R. E. Francillon

    eBook (Transcript, Feb. 11, 2015)
    Gods and Heroes - or The Kingdom of Jupiter by R. E. FrancillonTHESE stories will, I trust, explain their own purpose; but a few words touching their form are due to critical readers.It will be seen that the Mythology adopted throughout is strictly of the old-fashioned kind which goes to Ovid as its leading authority, and ignores the difference between the gods of Greece and the gods of Rome. I have deliberately followed this plan because, while there is not the remotest fear—quite the contrary—that young people, when or if they become scholars, will not be duly initiated into the mysteries of scientific and comparative mythology, there is considerable danger that the stories of the gods and heroes which have saturated literature, and have become essential portions of the thought and life of ages, may become explained away only too thoroughly. It is easy for my readers to acquire the science of the subject hereafter; but where mythology is concerned, the poetry must come before the prose, and it will be a distinct loss for them if, under scientific teaching, they have never been familiar with the ancient stories as they were read by the makers of literature in the pré-critical times. Without the mythology of the Latin poets, modern literature in all languages becomes almost a dead letter: hundreds of allusions become pointless, and thousands of substances fade into shadows. Of the three mythologies, the Greek, the Roman, and the Poetic or Conventional, I have selected the last, because—among other reasons—It is as useful, and as needful to be known, as the others, on general grounds;It is more useful, and more needful, than the others, as a portion of literature and as an intellectual influence;It is preferable as a means of exciting an interest in the subject;It is not in the remotest degree an obstacle to more accurate knowledge, for which indeed it is an almost indispensable preparation.After these observations, there is no occasion to explain why I have made a point of employing Latin names and Latin spelling.Another point to which I should call attention is the attempt to cover (within limits) the whole ground, so that the reader may not be left in ignorance of any considerable tract of the realm of Jove. The stories are not detached; they are brought, so far as I have been able to bring them, into a single saga, free from inconsistencies and contradictions. Omissions owing to the necessarily prescribed limits will, I think, always find a place to fall into. Altogether, the lines of the volume diverge so entirely from those of Kingsley, or Hawthorne, or any other story-teller known to me, that I may feel myself safe from the danger of fatal comparisons. Of course this aim at a certain completeness has implied the difficult task of selection among variants of the same story or incident. Sometimes I have preferred the most interesting, sometimes the version most consistent with the general plan. But I have endeavored, as a rule, to adopt the most usual or familiar, as being most in accordance with my original intention.I need not, however, enumerate difficulties, which, if they are overcome, need no apology; and, if they are not, deserve none. The greatest and most obvious, the strict observance of the “Maxima reverentia,” will, and must always remain, crucial. In this, at least, I trust I have succeeded, in whatever else I may have failed. These stories were begun for one who was very dear to me, and who was their first and best critic; and I shall be glad if what was begun, in hope, for him should be of use to others.
  • The Thread of Flame

    Basil King

    eBook (Transcript, July 14, 2015)
    The Thread of Flame by Basil KingWithout opening my eyes I guessed that it must be between five and six in the morning.I was snuggled into something narrow. On moving my knee abruptly it came into contact with an upright board. At the same time the end of my bed rose upward, so that my feet were higher than my head. Then the other end rose, and my head was higher than my feet. A slow, gentle roll threw my knee once more against the board, though another slow, gentle roll swung me back to my former position. Far away there was a rhythmic throbbing, like the beating of a pulse. I knew I was on shipboard, and for the moment it was all I knew.Not quite awake and not quite asleep, I waited as one waits in any strange bed, in any strange place, for the waking mind to reconnect itself with the happenings overnight. Sure of this speedy re-establishment, I dozed again.On awaking the second time I was still at a loss for the reason for my being at sea. I had left a port; I was going to a port; and I didn't know the name of either. I might have been on any ocean, sailing to any quarter of the globe. How long I had been on the way, and how far I had still to go, were details that danced away from me whenever I tried to seize them. I retained a knowledge of continents and countries; but as soon as I made the attempt to see myself in any of them my mind recoiled from the effort with a kind of sick dislike.Nothing but a dull hint came to me on actually opening my eyes. An infiltration of gray light through the door, which was hooked ajar, revealed a mere slit in space, with every peg and corner utilized. A quiet breathing from the berth above my head told me that I shared the cabin with some one else. On the wall opposite, above a flat red couch piled with small articles of travel, two complete sets of clothing swung outward, or from side to side like pendulums, according to the movement of the ship.I closed my eyes again. It was clearly a cabin of the cheaper and less comfortable order, calling up a faintly disagreeable surprise. It was from that that I drew my inference. I judged that whoever I was I had traveled before, and in more luxurious conditions.Through the partly open door, beyond which there must have been an open porthole, came puffs of salt wind and the swish and roar of the ocean. Vainly I sought indications as to the point of the compass toward which we were headed. Imagination adapted itself instantly to any direction it was asked to take. In this inside cabin there was no suggestion from sun or cloud to show the difference between east and west.Because I was not specially alarmed I did my best to doze again. Dozing seemed to me, indeed, the wisest course, for the reason that during the freedom of subconsciousness in sleep the missing connection was the more likely to be restored. It would be restored of course. I was physically well. I knew that by my general sensations. Young, vigorous, and with plenty of money, a mere lapse of memory was a joke.
  • Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

    Horatio Alger

    language (Transcript, July 14, 2014)
    Bernard Brooks' Adventures - The Experience of a Plucky Boy by Horatio AlgerYou're a bad lot, Bernard Brooks. I don't think I ever knew a wuss boy.""Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Snowdon. Let me suggest, however, that wuss is hardly correct English."The speaker was fifteen years of age, but as tall as most boys of seventeen. He had a bold, aggressive manner, which he only assumed with those he thought were hostile or unfriendly.He could be a devoted friend, and a loyal subordinate to one who gained his good will. Mr. Snowdon he did not look upon as a friend, though he had been placed in his charge two months before by a cousin of his deceased father.Ezekiel Snowdon, a man of perhaps sixty, tall and with stooping shoulders, colored with anger at the boy's sarcastic words.He claimed to have been educated at a small Western college, and on the strength of it had established himself in the country and advertised for private pupils at a low rate.These were mostly young, and not competent to see his deficiencies, but Bernard was old enough and well enough educated to perceive and comment on them. This greatly annoyed Mr. Snowdon, who felt that the boy did not treat him with proper respect."Quit your impudence!" said Snowdon with a vicious look in his greenish lived eyes. "I don't need no criticisms from a whipper snapper like you.""I intended it for your benefit, Mr. Snowdon," said Bernard demurely. "Besides, you criticise me. You called me a bad lot.""And so you are. A wuss—a worse boy I never seen.""Saw would be more correct, Mr. Snowdon.""Young man, you'd better look out. I won't submit to your aggravating impudence. Besides, you are ignorant of the fact that Chaucer and Spenser use seen for saw. Them are my favorite poets, so it is not strange that I should occasionally make use of their diction."
  • The Autobiography of a Clown

    Isaac Frederick Marcosson

    language (Transcript, May 10, 2016)
    The Autobiography of a Clown by Isaac Frederick MarcossonWhen the article on which this little book is based appeared in the Saturday Evening Post we were amazed at the response it evoked. It simply proved that all the world loves a clown. In most of the comment and communication, however, there was a question as to the authenticity of the subject. I beg to say that Jules is a real personage and still the nimble producer of many laughs.It was while writing a series of articles on an entirely different phase of the circus that I first met Jules. I heard of him the moment I stepped into the circus world. So thoroughly had he impressed his personality; so deeply had he become attached to its life, and so profoundly had he gained the respect of its people, that not to have heard of him argued that I was deaf and blind to everything about me. I found him the friend, philosopher, and guide of the nomadic city of tents that rose with the dawn and slipped away into the night. Despite its transiency, there was much permanency of character in its varied inhabitants. No one contributed more to its moral structure than Jules, the clown.We who live in this breathless era are wont to look upon the circus as a temporary amusement makeshift. It is here to-day and gone to-morrow. Yet behind its spangled, tinseled array and restless movement are real traditions. Why has the circus endured in an age that craves new diversion? Simply because it is basic; because it fills a fundamental need; because it is a staple like wheat. Laughter is one of the few eternal things; therefore the circus which produces it takes on something of the same quality. More than this, the circus is as much an expression of art as the drama. Like art, it is universal. The clown being a world citizen interprets a world humor in which there is neither border line, race, nor creed. Most of the great humorists have been sad men, and thus the clown, clothed in his right mind, is grave and reflective. Though he wear cap and bells, he has not wanted for recognition among the great. Garrick, Kemble, and Booth have been glad to claim him as fellow-artists. But it is in the heart of the child that he has found his most grateful friend, and in a larger sense all the world is a child when it goes to the circus.In my work I have had to be, on many occasions, the biographer of the great and the chronicler of much timely achievement. In all this swift march of people and events I have yet to meet a man whose devotion to the ideals of his art is more sincere than that which has animated Jules Turnour through the long years of his clowning. I have been with him in the tumult of tented travel and watched him in the roofed arena before the multitudes. Always I have found him proud to be a clown. To know him has indeed been a liberal education in character and loyalty.
  • Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders in the High Sierras

    Josephine Chase

    language (Transcript, Jan. 11, 2016)
    Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders in the High Sierras by Josephine Chase“Who is this Stacy Brown that you girls are speaking of?” questioned Emma Dean as the Overland girls sat down to dinner in Grace Harlowe’s hospitable Haven Home.“He is my Hippy’s nephew,” Nora Wingate informed her. “You will like ‘Chunky,’ as he is known to his friends, and I promise you that he will keep this outfit from getting lonely,” added Nora laughingly.“He was one of the members of the Pony Rider Boys’ outfit,” volunteered Grace. “You know we have heard of them several times on our journeyings. They used to go out in search of adventure every summer, so Stacy is a seasoned campaigner. We shall need him where we are going, too.”“By the way, where are we going, Grace?” spoke up Elfreda Briggs. “I believe our destination is to be in the nature of a surprise—a mystery, as it were.”“I just dote on mysteries,” bubbled Emma. “Of course I could have learned all about it had I not been too conscientious.”“That is characteristic of your sex,” replied Hippy Wingate soberly. “May I ask you how you could have found out?”“I thank you for the compliment, and regret exceedingly that I cannot return the compliment in kind. How could I have found out? Why, by the transmigration of thought.”“The what?” cried Elfreda laughingly. “Is this some new freak, Emma Dean?”“It may be new with me, but the principle is as old as the ages. I belong to the Society for the Promotion of Thought Transmigration. Our great and Most Worthy Master lives in Benares, India, where numbers of the faithful journey for instruction and inspiration once every two years.”“Do you mean to say that you belong to that fool outfit?” wondered Hippy.“I am happy to say that I do. I joined last winter, and, novice that I am, I have realized some remarkable results,” replied Emma.“Nora, we ought to take her to a specialist before we start on our journey. It won’t do to have a crazy person with us. She might get us into no end of trouble,” suggested Hippy.“Humph! I’d much prefer to be crazy than to have a bungalow head,” retorted Emma scornfully.“A bungalow head?” exclaimed the girls.“Yes. A bungalow has no upper story, you know.”
  • The Last Entry

    Clark Russell

    language (Transcript, April 3, 2014)
    The Last Entry by William Clark Russell'"The Last Entry" is a rattling good salt-water yarn, told in the author's usual breezy, exhilarating style.'—Daily Mail.'In this new novel Mr. Russell has cleverly thrown its events into the year 1837, and there are one or two ingenious passages which add to the Diamond Jubilee interest which that date suggests.... "The Last Entry" is as certain of general popularity as any of Mr. Russell's former tales of the marvels of the sea.'—Glasgow Herald.'We do not think it possible for anyone to dip into this novel without desiring to finish it, and it adds another to the long list of successes of our best sea author.'—Librarian.'In addition to mutiny and murder, "The Last Entry" contains many of those good things which have made Mr. Russell's pages a joy to so many lovers of the sea during the last twenty years.... "The Last Entry" is a welcome addition to Mr. Clark Russell's library.'—Speaker.'The writer is as realistic and picturesque as usual in his vivid descriptions of the stagnant life on board the homeward-bound Indiaman.'—Times.'It is full of pleasant vigour.... As is always the case in Mr. Clark Russell's books, the elements are treated with the pen of an artist.'—Standard.'We expected plenty of go, of fresh and vigorous description of sea-faring life, coupled with a story which would not be wanting in interest. All this we have here.'—Tablet.