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Plane and Plank - or, The Mishaps of a Mechanic by Oliver Optic"Plane and Plank" is the second of The Upward and Onward Series, in which the hero, Phil Farringford, appears as a mechanic. The events of the story are located on the Missouri River and in the city of St. Louis. Phil learns the trade of a carpenter, and the contrast between a young mechanic of an inquiring mind, earnestly laboring to master his business, and one who feels above his calling, and overvalues his own skill, is presented to the young reader, with the hope that he will accept the lesson.Incidentally, in the person and history of Phil's father the terrible evils of intemperance are depicted, and the value of Christian love and earnest prayer in the reformation of the unfortunate inebriate is exhibited.Though the incidents of the hero's career are quite stirring, and some of the situations rather surprising, yet Phil is always true to himself; and those who find themselves in sympathy with him cannot possibly be led astray, while they respect his Christian principles, reverence the Bible, and strive with him to do their whole duty to God and man.

Bessie at the Sea-Side by Joanna H. MathewsTHE hotel carriage rolled away from Mr. Bradford's door with papa and mamma, the two nurses and four little children inside, and such a lot of trunks and baskets on the top; all on their way to Quam Beach. Harry and Fred, the two elder boys, were to stay with grandmamma until their school was over; and then they also were to go to the sea-side.The great coach carried them across the ferry, and then they all jumped out and took their seats in the cars. It was a long, long ride, and after they left the cars there were still three or four miles to go in the stage, so that it was quite dark night when they reached Mrs. Jones's house. Poor little sick Bessie was tired out, and even Maggie, who had enjoyed the journey very much, thought that she should be glad to go to bed as soon as she had had her supper. It was so dark that the children could not see the ocean, of which they had talked and thought so much; but they could hear the sound of the waves as they rolled up on the beach. There was a large hotel at Quam, but Mrs. Bradford did not choose to go there with her little children; and so she had hired all the rooms that Mrs. Jones could spare in her house. The rooms were neat and clean, but very plain, and not very large, and so different from those at home that Maggie thought she should not like them at all. In that which was to be the nursery was a large, four-post bedstead in which nurse and Franky were to sleep; and beside it stood an old-fashioned trundle-bed, which was for Maggie and Bessie. Bessie was only too glad to be put into it at once, but Maggie looked at it with great displeasure."I sha'n't sleep in that nasty bed," she said. "Bessie, don't do it.""Indeed," said nurse, "it's a very nice bed; and if you are going to be a naughty child, better than you deserve. That's a great way you have of calling every thing that don't just suit you, 'nasty.' I'd like to know where you mean to sleep, if you don't sleep there.""I'm going to ask mamma to make Mrs. Jones give us a better one," said Maggie; and away she ran to the other room where mamma was undressing the baby. "Mamma," she said, "won't you make Mrs. Jones give us a better bed? That's just a kind of make-believe bed that nurse pulled out of the big one, and I know I can't sleep a wink in it.""I do not believe that Mrs. Jones has another one to give us, dear," said her mother. "I know it is not so pretty as your little bed at home, but I think you will find it very comfortable. When I was a little girl, I always slept in a trundle-bed, and I never rested better. If you do not sleep a wink, we will see what Mrs. Jones can do for us to-morrow; but for to-night I think you must be contented with that bed; and if my little girl is as tired as her mother, she will be glad to lie down anywhere."Maggie had felt like fretting a little; but when she saw how pale and tired her dear mother looked, she thought she would not trouble her by being naughty, so she put up her face for another good-night kiss, and ran back to the nursery."O, Maggie," said Bessie, "this bed is yeal nice and comf'able; come and feel it." So Maggie popped in between the clean white sheets, and in two minutes she had forgotten all about the trundle-bed and everything else.When Bessie woke up the next morning, she saw Maggie standing by the open window, in her night-gown, with no shoes or stockings on. "O, Maggie," she said, "mamma told us not to go bare-feeted, and you are."

Neighbors Unknown 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. It seemed to be the very roof of the world, all naked to the outer cold, this flat vast of solitude, dimly outspread beneath the Arctic night. A line of little hills, mere knobs and hummocks, insignificant under the bitter starlight, served to emphasize the immeasurable and shelterless flatness of the surrounding expanse. Somewhere beneath the unfeatured levels the sea ended and the land began, but over all lay the monotony of ridged ice and icy, wind-scourged snow. The wind, which for weeks without a pause had torn screaming across the nakedness, had now dropped into calm; and with the calm there seemed to come in the unspeakable cold of space.Suddenly a sharp noise, beginning in the dimness far to the left of the Little Hills, ran snapping past them and died off abruptly in the distance to the right. It was the ice, thickened under that terrific cold, breaking in order to readjust itself to the new pressure. There was a moment of strange muttering and grinding. Then, again, the stillness.Yet, even here on the roof of the world, which seemed as if all the winds of eternity had swept it bare, there was life, life that clutched and clung savagely. Away to the right of the Little Hills, something moved, prowling slowly among the long ridges of the ice. It was a gaunt, white, slouching, startling shape, some seven or eight feet in length, and nearly four in height, with heavy shoulders, and a narrow, flat-browed head that hung low and swayed menacingly from side to side as it went. Had the light been anything more than the wide glimmer of stars, it would have shown that this lonely, prowling shape of white had a black-tipped muzzle, black edges to the long slit of its jaws, and little, cruel eyes with lids outlined in black. From time to time the prowler raised his head, sniffed with dilating nostrils, and questioned with strained ears the deathly silence. It was a polar bear, an old male, too restless and morose to content himself with sleeping away the terrible polar winter in a snow-blanketed hole.From somewhere far off to seaward came across the stillness a light sound, the breaking of thin ice, the tinkle of splashings frozen as they fell. The great white bear understood that sound. He had been waiting for it. The seals were breaking their way up into their air-holes to breathe—those curious holes which form here and there in the ice-fields over moving water, as if the ocean itself had need of keeping in touch with upper air for its immeasurable breathing. At a great pace, but noiselessly as a drifting wraith of snow, the bear went towards the sound. Then suddenly he dropped flat and seemed to vanish. In reality he was crawling, crawling steadily towards the place of the air-holes. But so smooth was his movement, so furtive, and so fitted to every irregularity of the icy surface, that if the eye once lost him it might strive in vain to pick him up again.

Jungle and Stream - Or The Adventures of Two Boys in Siam by George Manville FennI. SIXTY YEARS AGO II. THE JUNGLE HUNTER III. SREE'S PRISONER IV. FISHING WITH A WORM V. THE DOCTOR'S POST-MORTEM VI. MAKING PLANS VII. THE BRINK OF A VOLCANO VIII. A PROWL BY WATER IX. NATURALISTS' TREASURES X. WHAT HARRY HEARD XI. THE NAGA'S BITE XII. SUL THE ELEPHANT XIII. THEIR FIRST TIGER XIV. A YOUNG SAVAGE XV. FOR THE JUNGLE, HO! XVI. THE HOUSE-BOAT XVII. JUNGLE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS XVIII. ELEPHANTS AT HOME XIX. A NIGHT ALARM XX. A DREARY RETURN XXI. A HIDING-PLACE XXII. DARING PLANS XXIII. THE SPEAR HARVEST XXIV. THE HELP SEEKER XXV. A DESPERATE VENTURE XXVI. FOR LIFE XXVII. THE POWDER MINE XXVIII. SAVING THE STORES XXIX. THE DOCTOR KEPT BUSY XXX. LIKE A BAD SHILLING XXXI. COMING HOME TO ROOST XXXII. IN THE NICK OF TIME XXXIII. WHAT FOLLOWED"Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling!" was sung in a good, clear, boyish tenor, and then the singer stopped, to say impatiently,—"What nonsense it is! My head seems stuffed full of Scotch songs,—'Wee bit sangs,' as the doctor calls them. Seems funny that so many Scotch people should come out here to the East. I suppose it's because the Irish all go to the West, that they may get as far apart as they can, so that there may not be a fight. I say, though, I want my breakfast."The speaker, to wit Harry Kenyon, sauntered up to the verandah of the bungalow and looked in at the window of the cool, shaded room, where a man-servant in white drill jacket and trousers was giving the finishing touches to the table."Breakfast ready, Mike?""Yes, sir; coffee's boiled, curry's made.""Curry again?""Yes, Master Harry; curry again. That heathen of a cook don't believe a meal's complete without curry and rice.""But I thought we were going to have fried fish this morning.""So did I, sir. I told him plainly enough; but he won't understand, and he's curried the lot.""How tiresome!""I should like to curry his hide, Master Harry, but it's leather-coloured already. Never mind; there's some fresh potted meat.""Bother potted meat! I'm sick of potted meat. Look here, next time I bring home any fresh fish you go into the kitchen and cook them yourself.""What, me go and meddle there! Look here, Master Harry, I'll go with you fishing, and wade into that sticky red mud if you want me to; or I'll go with you shooting or collecting, and get my eyes scratched out in the jungle, and risk being clawed by tigers, or stung by snakes, or squeedged flat by an elephant's neat little foot; but I'm not going to interfere with old Ng's pots and pans. Why, he'd put some poison in my vittles.""Nonsense!"

Third Warning - A Mystery Story for Girls by Roy J. Snell“Look, Dave. See those strange clouds?” Florence Huyler shaded her eyes to look away toward the horizon. Her face wore an expression of bewildered curiosity.“Yes, I see them. They are queer!” young “Captain Davie,” as everyone called him, replied as he wrinkled his brow. After giving the wheel of his motor-driven craft a turn, he studied those clouds. “Scurrying along the horizon,” he murmured, “they roll quite a bit, don’t they?”“Yes, and such a peculiar shade of yellow,” Florence added. “Oh well, clouds are different up here on Lake Superior.”“Nothing to worry about, I guess,” said Dave, as once again he gave his attention to the wheel.As for Florence, at the moment she had nothing to do but think. And such bitter-sweet thoughts as they were! She was cruising on Lake Superior. That was grand! She had always loved the water. What was still more magnificent, she was landing twice a week on the shores of that place of great enchantment—Isle Royale.Once, you will recall from reading The Phantom Violin, Florence with two companions had made her summer home on a huge wrecked ship off the rocky shores of this very island. What a summer that had been! Adventure? Plenty of it. The ship had at last been completely destroyed during a storm. They had barely escaped with their lives. The girl shuddered a little even now at the thought of it.

Some Persons Unknown by E. W. HornungKenyon had been more unmanageable than usual. Unsettled and excitable from the moment he awoke and remembered who was coming in the evening, he had remained in an unsafe state all day. That evening found him with unbroken bones was a miracle to Ethel his sister, and to his great friend John, the under-gardener. Poor Ethel was in charge; and sole charge of Kenyon, who was eleven, was no light matter for a girl with her hair still down. Her brother was a handful at most times; to-day he would have filled some pairs of stronger hands than Ethel's. They had begun the morning together, with snob-cricket, as the small boy called it; but Kenyon had been rather rude over it, and Ethel had retired. She soon regretted this step; it had made him reckless; he had spent the most dangerous day. Kenyon delighted in danger. He had a mania for walking round the entire premises on the garden wall, which was high enough to kill him if he fell, and for clambering over the greenhouses, which offered a still more fascinating risk. Not only had he done both this morning, he had gone so far as to straddle a gable of the house itself, shrieking good-tempered insults at Ethel, who appealed to him with tears and entreaties from the lawn below. Ethel had been quite disabled from sitting at meat with him; and in the afternoon he had bothered the gardeners, in the potting-shed, to such an extent that his friend John had subsequently refused to bowl to him. In John's words Master Kenyon had been a public nuisance all day—though a lovable one—at his very worst he was that. He had lovable looks, for one thing. It was not the only thing. The boy had run wild since his young mother's death. There were reasons why he should not go to school at present. There were reasons why he should spend the long summer days in the sunshine, and open only the books he cared about, despite the oddity of his taste in books. He had dark, laughing eyes, and a face of astonishing brightness and health: astonishing because (as he said) his legs and arms were as thin as pipe-stems, and certainly looked as brittle. Kenyon was indeed a delicate boy. He was small and delicate and weak in everything but spirit. "He has the spirit," said John, his friend, "of the deuce and all!"Ethel forgave easily, perhaps too easily, but then she was Kenyon's devoted slave, who cried about him half the night, and lived for him, and longed to die for him. Kenyon had toned himself down by tea-time, and when he sought her then as though nothing had happened, she was only too thankful to catch his spirit. Had she reminded him of his behaviour on the roof and elsewhere, he would have been very sorry and affectionate; but it was not her way to make him sorry, it was her way to show an interest in all he had to say, and at tea-time Kenyon was still full of the thing that had excited and unsettled him in the morning. Only now he was beginning to feel in awe, and the schoolroom tea had never been a seemlier ceremony.

Coaching Days & Ways by E. D. CumingThe many boons conferred by Mr. John Palmer upon his generation faded before the advance of the railways; but he has deserved well of posterity, if only for that he altered the coach team from three horses to four. Until that enterprising man undertook to demonstrate that the coach could carry letters more rapidly and safely than could the post-boy, our ancestors had been content with the unicorn team; but after Palmer had astonished the world by making the journey from Bath to London, in 1784, at the rate of nearly seven miles an hour, the team of four horses gradually but steadily supplanted that of three in the stages on almost every road in the country.It is generally assumed that fast coaching only came into existence after the macadamisation of the roads; but this is not quite the case. Under favourable conditions the speed attained in pre-Macadam days was nearly as great as it became later. The Sporting Magazine of June 1807 says: ‘Lately one of the stage coaches on the North road ran from London to Stamford, a distance of 90 miles, in 9 hours 4 minutes. The passengers, four in number, breakfasted and dined on the road, so it must have run at the rate of 12 miles an hour all the time it was travelling.’

It Never Can Happen Again by William De MorganWilliam Frend De Morgan (16 November 1839 – 15 January 1917) was an English potter, tile designer and novelist. A lifelong friend of William Morris, he designed tiles, stained glass and furniture for Morris & Co. from 1863 to 1872. His tiles are often based on medieval designs or Persian patterns, and he experimented with innovative glazes and firing techniques. Galleons and fish were popular motifs, as were "fantastical" birds and other animals. Many of De Morgan's tile designs were planned to create intricate patterns when several tiles were laid together. Collections of De Morgan's work exist in many museums, including the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the William Morris Gallery in London, a substantial and representative collection in Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, and a small but well-chosen collection along with much other pottery at Norwich. There was an exhibition of his work and of that of his wife, Evelyn, in the De Morgan Centre in Wandsworth, London (part of Wandsworth Museum) from 2002 until 2014. His dragon charger is in the Dunedin Public Art Gallery in New Zealand. The National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa has a very good collection of William De Morgan's work given by Ruth Amelia Jackson in 1997 but much of it is kept in store. De Morgan's work is also present in many major collections with decorative art including the Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, Canada, the Musee D'Orsay, Paris, Manchester Art Gallery and the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.

Facts and Speculations on the Origin and History of Playing Cards by William Andrew ChattoShould a person who has never bestowed a thought on the subject ask, "What can there be that is interesting in the History of Cards?" it is answered, "There may be much." There is an interest, of a certain kind, even in the solution of a riddle, or the explication of a conundrum; and certain learned men, such as Père Daniel, and Court de Gebelin, having assumed that the game of Cards was originally instructive, and that the figures and marks of the suits are emblematic, speaking to the intelligent of matters of great import, their amusingly absurd speculations on the subject—set forth with all the gravity of a "budge doctor" determining ex cathedra—impart to the History of Cards an interest which, intrinsically, it does not possess. But putting aside all that may relate to their covert meaning, cards, considered with respect to what they simply are—the instruments of a popular game, and the productions of art—suggest several questions, the investigation of which is not without interest: Where and when were they invented, and what is the origin of their names? When were they introduced into Europe? What has been their progress as a popular game; and what influence have they had on society? What changes have they undergone with respect to the figures and the marks of the suits; and to what purposes have picture and fancy cards been made subservient, in consequence of those in common use being so generally understood? And lastly, what have been the opinions of moralists and theologians with respect to the lawfulness of the game?—Such are the topics discussed, and questions examined, in the following pages.Of the works of previous writers on the origin of Cards I have freely availed myself; using them as guides when I thought them right, pointing out their errors when I thought them wrong, and allowing them to speak for themselves whenever they seemed instructive or amusing. Having no wish to appropriate what was not my own, I have quoted my authorities with scrupulous fidelity; and am not conscious of an obligation which I have not acknowledged. Should the reader not obtain from this work all the information on Cards which he might have expected, it is hoped that he will at least acquire from its perusal a knowledge of the true value of such investigations. Between being well informed on a subject, and knowing the real worth of such information, there is a distinction which is often overlooked, especially by antiquaries.In the Illustrations will be found a greater variety of Cards than have hitherto been given in any other work on the same subject, not excepting the splendid publication of the Society of Bibliophiles Français, entitled 'Jeux de Cartes Tarots et de Cartes Numérales du Quatorzième au Dix-huitième Siècle.' All the cards—with the exception of the French Valets, at p. 250, and the Portuguese Chevaliers, at p. 252,—have been copied by Mr. F. W. Fairholt; and all the wood-engravings—with the exception of the tail-piece, by W. J. Linton, at p. 330,—have been executed by Mr. George Vasey.

The Adventure Girls at Happiness House by Clair BlankWith a final chug and screech of brakes the train slid to a halt before the two story frame building that did duty for a railway station in the little college town of Briarhurst.A group of girls proceeded with much hilarity and little speed to transport themselves and their luggage from the railway coach to the station platform. From there they viewed the rusty bus that was to transport them up the hill to the college grounds.“It will never hold all of us and our luggage,” Carol Carter declared with firm conviction. “Perhaps we had better walk.”Janet Gordon looked at the dusty road winding up the hill behind the station and then at the bus. “You can walk,” she said. “I’ll take a chance on this antiquated vehicle.”“Are you the six young ladies goin’ to Briarhurst?”The girls turned to see a wizened old man approaching from the station. “If ye are, climb aboard. I’m the bus driver.”“I’ll wager the bus is even older than he is,” Madge Reynolds murmured to Valerie Wallace.“Will the contraption hold together?” Carol wanted to know.“It’s been a-runnin’ for nigh onto twenty years and ain’t fell apart yet,” the driver said, climbing into his seat and waiting for the girls to get aboard.“That isn’t saying it never will,” Phyllis Elton commented.After much dickering the girls got into the bus, their luggage for the most part piled on the roof, and the ancient vehicle with its ancient driver started with a roar.“It reminds me of a peanut roaster,” Carol murmured. “The way the radiator is steaming and the noise it makes.”“Everything but the peanuts,” agreed Janet. “Which reminds me, I hope dinner is early.”“Dinner is at seven,” the driver informed them conversationally.

Our Little Russian Cousin by Mary Hazelton Blanchard WadeA large country, called Russia, lies in the eastern part of Europe. It stretches from the icy shores of the Arctic Ocean, on the north, to the warm waters of the Black Sea, on the south.Many of the children of this great country have fair skins and blue eyes. They belong to the same race as their English and American cousins, although they speak a different language.Some of them live in palaces, and have everything that heart could desire; but a vast number of them are very poor, and their parents are obliged to work hard to keep the grim wolf, hunger, away from the door.Russia, as a nation, is very young, as compared with many others. She is still in her childhood. Perhaps it is because of this that her people do not enjoy as much freedom as ourselves.A few years ago the Emperor of Russia spoke some words to which the people of the western world listened with surprise and delight. He said, "I wish there were peace between all countries, and that we could settle our differences with each other without fighting." These wise words did a great deal of good. The emperor, without doubt, meant what he said. He did wish heartily that wars should be at an end. He has not felt able, however, to carry out his ideas of peace, for at this very moment he is at war with the people of Japan.Let us hope that this war will soon be over, and that the nation to which our Russian Cousin belongs will become as truly free and wise as she is now large and powerful.

A Tale of the Tow-Path by Homer GreeneHoeing corn is not very hard work for one who is accustomed to it, but the circumstances of the hoeing may make the task an exceedingly laborious one. They did so in Joe Gaston’s case. Joe Gaston thought he had never in his life before been put to such hard and disagreeable work.In the first place, the ground had been broken up only that spring, and it was very rough and stony. Next, the field was on a western slope, and the rays of the afternoon sun shone squarely on it. It was an unusually oppressive day, too, for the last of June.Finally, and chiefly: Joe was a fourteen-year-old boy, fond of sport and of companionship, and he was working there alone.Leaning heavily on the handle of his hoe, Joe gazed pensively away to the west. At the foot of the slope lay a small lake, its unruffled surface reflecting with startling distinctness the foliage that lined its shores, and the two white clouds that hung above in the blue sky.Through a rift in the hills could be seen, far away, the line of purple mountains that lay beyond the west shore of the Hudson River.“It aint fair!” said Joe, talking aloud to himself, as he sometimes did. “I don’t have time to do anything but just work, work, work. Right in the middle of summer, too, when you can have the most fun of any time in the year, if you only had a chance to get it! There’s berrying and bee-hunting and swimming and fishing and—and lots of things.”The look of pensiveness on Joe’s face changed into one of longing.“Fishing’s awful good now,” he continued; “but I don’t get a chance to go, unless I go without asking, and even then I dassent carry home the fish.”After another minute of reflection he turned his face toward the upland, where, in the distance, the white porch and gables of a farmhouse were visible through an opening between two rows of orchard trees.“I guess I’ll just run down to the pond a few minutes, and see if there’s any fish there. It aint more’n three o’clock; Father’s gone up to Morgan’s with that load of hay, and he won’t be home before five o’clock. I can get back and hoe a lot of corn by that time.”