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   <title>"Demolition Man," by Daniel Waters; and JonathanLemkin</title>
                             DEMOLITIONMAN                          Participating Writers:                              PeterLenkov                              Robert Reneau                              Daniel Waters                               FredDecker                             Jonathan Lemkin                                Story by:                              PeterLenkov                              Daniel Waters                             Screenplay by:                              DanielWaters                             Jonathan Lemkin        SILVERPICTURES                                                  November 19, 1992                                                  c1992        [NOTE: THE FOLLOWING SCREENPLAY HAD NUMBERED SCENES.        THESE HAVE BEENOMITTED FOR THIS SOFT COPY.]                                 "The world of the futurewill                                 be an ever more demanding                                 struggle against thelimitations                                 of our intelligence..."                                                    NorbertWiener                                 "On the whole, I'd rather be in                                 Philadelphia..."                                                    W.C.  Fields                             DEMOLITION MAN        FADEIN:        EXT. BLACK SKY - NIGHT        Dark, ominous clouds of smoke.  A beat of semi-calm.        Andthen... A long blast of TRACER FIRE cuts through.        And another.  And another.  We TILT DOWN todiscover we        are --        EXT. LOS ANGELES - AIRBORNE - MOVING - NIGHT (1998)        A city onfire.  A block here, block there.  More TRACER        FIRE.  A cross between the LA riots and GulfWar.  A        SUPERED TITLE:  LA RIOT III.  And then FADING IN BELOW:        MONTH 4.  We CONTINUEMOVING ABOVE the ravaged city --                                VOICE #1(V.O.)                         (filtered)                  You imagine what it was like when                  they had tofly choppers through                  this shit?                                VOICE #2 (V.O.)                  Noteven.        Gliding totally silently INTO FRAME is the biggest,        darkest, midnight blue blimp you'veever seen.  Small        gold letters on the side -- LAPD.  Fully armored beneath.        Woven kevlar on thesides.  BULLETS REBOUND with a long        ZZZZZIP off the sides.  PING SOFTLY off the plasticarmor        on the bottom.                                VOICE #1 (V.O.)                  I don't understand wherewe're                  going and why the hell we're                  bothering anyhow...        A new voiceresponds.  This one brooks no discussion --                                SPARTAN (V.O.)                  Becausethere's anger and there's                  frustration, and then there's pure                  fuckingevil...        INT. BLIMP POD - CONTINUOUS ACTION - NIGHT        JOHN SPARTAN peers down into thefiery landscape.                                SPARTAN                  Where we're going is purefucking                  evil.                         (beat)                  Thirty people who were ridingthat                  muni bus are still missing.  I've                  got this bad hunch about whotook                  them and where they are...        EXT. EXTREME SOUTH CENTRAL LA - FROM ABOVE -AIRBORNE -        NIGHT        Way up ahead, amid the flames, is a fortress.  A square        cityblock.  Walled.  Something out of the middle ages.        The walls are entirely made from stackedabandoned cars.        INT. BLIMP POD - NIGHT        Spartan is dragging a heavy bag up towards thedoor.        PILOT #2 looks at him curiously.                                PILOT #2                  How come theycall you Demolition                  Man?  Are you with the bomb squad?        Spartan gets his bag intoposition.                                SPARTAN                  Ijust...                         (shrugs                          apologetically)                  ... demolish things.        Hechecks out the window.  They're not quite there.                                SPARTAN                  I do my job,shit happens.                         (to Pilot #1)                  Get a thermo.        The PILOT takes athermogram of the building in the        middle of the compound.  We see a series ofheat-outlined        figures moving inside.                                PILOT #1                  Six.  One still, in themiddle.                  The rest moving around.  I don't                  see any thirtypeople.                                SPARTAN                         (checking the thermo)                  What'sthat?        To the naked eye, out the window, tucked against the        wall of cars, a large tarp.  To the


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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Call of the Wild, by Jack LondonThis eBook is for the use ofanyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Call of the WildAuthor: Jack LondonRelease Date: July 1, 2008 [EBook#215]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CALL OF THE WILD***Produced by Ryan, Kirstin, Linda and Rick Trapp in LovingMemory of Ivan Louis ReeseTHE CALL OFTHE WILDby Jack London      Contents      I     Into the Primitive      II    The Law of Club andFang      III   The Dominant Primordial Beast      IV    Who Has Won to Mastership      V     The Toil ofTrace and Tail      VI    For the Love of a Man      VII   The Sounding of the CallChapter I. Into thePrimitive         "Old longings nomadic leap,          Chafing at custom's chain;          Again from its brumalsleep          Wakens the ferine strain."Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known thattroublewas brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strongof muscle and with warm,long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego.Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found ayellow metal,and because steamship and transportation companies were booming thefind, thousands ofmen were rushing into the Northland. These men wanteddogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavydogs, with strong muscles bywhich to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.Buck lived at abig house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. JudgeMiller's place, it was called. It stood back from theroad, half hiddenamong the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the widecool veranda thatran around its four sides. The house was approached bygravelled driveways which wound about throughwide-spreading lawns andunder the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were oneven amore spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables,where a dozen grooms and boys heldforth, rows of vine-clad servants'cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grapearbors,green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumpingplant for the artesianwell, and the big cement tank where JudgeMiller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in thehotafternoon.And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here hehad lived the fouryears of his life. It was true, there were otherdogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place,but they didnot count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or livedobscurely in therecesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, theJapanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexicanhairless,--strange creatures thatrarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the otherhand,there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelpedfearful promises at Toots andYsabel looking out of the windows at themand protected by a legion of housemaids armed with broomsand mops.But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his.He plunged into theswimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons;he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge'sdaughters, on long twilightor early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feetbefore theroaring library fire; he carried the Judge's grandsons on hisback, or rolled them in the grass, and guardedtheir footsteps throughwild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and evenbeyond, wherethe paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among theterriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots andYsabel he utterlyignored, for he was king,--king over all creeping, crawling, flyingthings of Judge Miller'splace, humans included.His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge'sinseparablecompanion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He wasnot so large,--heweighed only one hundred and forty pounds,--for hismother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog.Nevertheless, one hundredand forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of goodliving anduniversal respect, enabled him to carry himself in rightroyal fashion. During the four years since hispuppyhood he had livedthe life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was evena trifleegotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because oftheir insular situation. But he had savedhimself by not becoming a merepampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had keptdownthe fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbingraces, the love of water hadbeen a tonic and a health preserver.And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Spoilers, by Rex BeachThis eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The SpoilersAuthor: Rex BeachPosting Date: May 2, 2013 [EBook#5076]Release Date: February, 2004First Posted: April 16, 2002Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SPOILERS ***Produced by Charles Franks and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.THE SPOILERSBy REX BEACHAuthor of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "RAINBOW'S END""THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.Illustrated       THIS BOOKIS LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO       MYMOTHERCONTENTSCHAPTER    I. THE ENCOUNTER   II. THE STOWAWAY  III. IN WHICH GLENISTERERRS   IV. THE KILLING    V. WHEREIN A MAN APPEARS   VI. AND A MINE IS JUMPED  VII. THE "BRONCOKID'S" EAVESDROPPING VIII. DEXTRY MAKES A CALL   IX. SLUICE ROBBERS    X. THE WIT OF ANADVENTURESS   XI. WHEREIN A WRIT AND A RIOT FAIL  XII. COUNTERPLOTS XIII. IN WHICH A MAN ISPOSSESSED OF A DEVIL  XIV. A MIDNIGHT MESSENGER   XV. VIGILANTES  XVI. IN WHICH THE TRUTHBEGINS TO BARE ITSELF XVII. THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARKXVIII. WHEREIN A TRAP ISBAITED  XIX. DYNAMITE   XX. IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWORETURN  XXI. THE HAMMER-LOCK XXII. THE PROMISE OF DREAMSCHAPTER ITHE ENCOUNTERGlenistergazed out over the harbor, agleam with the lights of anchoredships, then up at the crenelated mountains,black against the sky. Hedrank the cool air burdened with its taints of the sea, while the bloodof hisboyhood leaped within him."Oh, it's fine--fine," he murmured, "and this is my country--mycountry, afterall, Dex. It's in my veins, this hunger for the North. Igrow. I expand.""Careful you don't bust," warnedDextry. "I've seen men get plumb drunkon mountain air. Don't expand too strong in one spot." He wentbackabruptly to his pipe, its villanous fumes promptly averting any dangerof the air's too tonicquality."Gad! What a smudge!" sniffed the younger man. "You ought to be inquarantine.""I'd ruther smelllike a man than talk like a kid. You desecrate thehour of meditation with rhapsodies on nature when youraesthetics ain'thoned up to the beauties of good tobacco."The other laughed, inflating his deep chest. Inthe gloom he stretchedhis muscles restlessly, as though an excess of vigor filled him.They were loungingupon the dock, while before them lay the Santa Mariaready for her midnight sailing. Behind sleptUnalaska, quaint, antique,and Russian, rusting amid the fogs of Bering Sea. Where, a weekbefore,mild-eyed natives had dried their cod among the old bronze cannon, nowa frenzied horde ofgold-seekers paused in their rush to the new ElDorado. They had come like a locust cloud, thousandsstrong, settlingon the edge of the Smoky Sea, waiting the going of the ice that barredthem from theirGolden Fleece--from Nome the new, where men foundfortune in a night.The mossy hills back of thevillage were ridged with graves of thosewho had died on the out-trip the fall before, when a plague hadgrippedthe land--but what of that? Gold glittered in the sands, so said thesurvivors; therefore men camein armies. Glenister and Dextry had leftNome the autumn previous, the young man raving with fever.Now theyreturned to their own land."This air whets every animal instinct in me," Glenister brokeoutagain. "Away from the cities I turn savage. I feel the old primitivepassions--the fret forfighting.""Mebbe you'll have a chance.""How so?""Well, it's this way. I met Mexico Mullins this mornin'.You mind oldMexico, don't you? The feller that relocated Discovery Claim on AnvilCreek lastsummer?""You don't mean that 'tin-horn' the boys were going to lynch forclaim-jumping?""Identical!Remember me tellin' you about a good turn I done him oncedown Guadalupe way?""Greasershooting-scrape, wasn't it?""Yep! Well, I noticed first off that he's gettin fat; high-livin' fat,too, all in onespot, like he was playin' both ends ag'in the centre.Also he wore di'mon's fit to handle withice-tongs."Says I, lookin' at his side elevation, 'What's accented your middlesyllable so strong,Mexico?'"'Prosperity, politics, an' the Waldorf-Astorier,' says he. It seemsMex hadn't forgot old days. Heclaws me into a corner an' says, 'Bill,I'm goin' to pay you back for that Moralez deal.'"'It ain't comin' tome,' says I. 'That's a bygone!'"'Listen here,' says he, an', seein' he was in earnest, I let him runon."'Howmuch do you value that claim o' yourn at?'"'Hard tellin',' says I. 'If she holds out like she run last


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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lisbeth Longfrock, by Hans AanrudThis eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: Lisbeth LongfrockAuthor: Hans AanrudIllustrator: Othar HolmboeTranslator:Laura E. PoulssonRelease Date: August 18, 2008 [EBook #26348]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LISBETH LONGFROCK ***Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper andthe OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net[Illustration: LISBETHLONGFROCK]LISBETH LONGFROCKTRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF HANS AANRUDBYLAURA E.POULSSONILLUSTRATED BYOTHAR HOLMBOEGINN AND COMPANYBOSTON Â· NEW YORK Â· CHICAGO Â·LONDONATLANTA Â· DALLAS Â· COLUMBUS Â· SAN FRANCISCOCOPYRIGHT, 1907, BYLAURA E.POULSSONALL RIGHTS RESERVEDPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAThe AthenÃ¦umPressGINN AND COMPANY Â· PROPRIETORS Â·BOSTON Â· U.S.A.PREFACEHans Aanrud's short stories areconsidered by his own countrymen asbelonging to the most original and artistically finished lifepicturesthat have been produced by the younger _literati_ of Norway. Theyare generally concerned withpeasant character, and present in truebalance the coarse and fine in peasant nature. The style of speechisoccasionally over-concrete for sophisticated ears, but it is notunwholesome. Of weak or cloyingsweetness--so abhorrent to Norwegiantaste--there is never a trace._Sidsel SidsÃ¦rk_ was dedicated tothe author's daughter on her eighthbirthday, and is doubtless largely reminiscent of Aanrud'sownchildhood. If I have been able to give a rendering at all worthy of theoriginal, readers of _LisbethLongfrock_ will find that the whole storybreathes a spirit of unaffected poetry not inconsistent with thecommonlife which it depicts. This fine blending of the poetic and commonplaceis another characteristic ofAanrud's writings.While translating the book I was living in the region where the scenesof the story arelaid, and had the benefit of local knowledgeconcerning terms used, customs referred to, etc. No painswere sparedin verifying particulars, especially through elderly people on thefarms, who could best explainthe old-fashioned terms and who had aclear remembrance of obsolescent details of sÃ¦ter life. Forthiswelcome help and for elucidations through other friends I wish here tooffer my hearty thanks.Beingdesirous of having the conditions of Norwegian farm life made asclear as possible to young English andAmerican readers, I felt thatseveral illustrations were necessary and that it would be well forthese to bethe work of a Norwegian. To understand how the sun can bealready high in the heavens when it rises,and how, when it sets, theshadow of the western mountain can creep as quickly as it does fromthebottom of the valley up the opposite slope, one must have someconception of the narrowness ofNorwegian valleys, with steep mountainridges on either side. I felt also that readers would be interestedinpictures showing how the dooryard of a well-to-do Norwegian farm looks,how the open fireplace of theroomy kitchen differs from ourfireplaces, how tall and slender a Norwegian stove is, built withalternatingspaces and heat boxes, several stories high, and howCrookhorn and the billy goat appeared when aboutto begin their grandtussle up at Hoel SÃ¦ter._Sidsel SidsÃ¦rk_ has given much pleasure to old and young.I hope that_Lisbeth Longfrock_ may have the same good fortune.LAURA E. POULSSONHOPKINTON,MASSACHUSETTSCONTENTSCHAPTER                                                  PAGE   I. LISBETH LONGFROCKGOES TO HOEL FARM                   1  II. LISBETH LONGFROCK AS SPINNING WOMAN                  12 III.LEAVING PEEROUT CASTLE                               22  IV. SPRING: LETTING THE ANIMALS OUT TOPASTURE           33   V. SUMMER: TAKING THE ANIMALS UP TO THE SÃTER           52  VI. THE TAMINGOF CROOKHORN                              68 VII. HOME FROM THE SÃTER                                  84VIII.ON GLORY PEAK                                        98  IX. THE VISIT TO PEEROUTCASTLE                         113   X. SUNDAY AT THE SÃTER                                 129  XI. LISBETHAPPOINTED HEAD MILKMAID                     139LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONSLISBETHLONGFROCK                               _Frontispiece_                                                         PAGEHOELFARM                                                   4THE BIG KITCHEN AT HOELFARM                               12LISBETH'S ROOM UNDER THE STAIRS                            34THE VALLEY


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ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The House on the Borderland, by William Hope HodgsonThis eBook is for the useof anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The House on the BorderlandAuthor: William Hope HodgsonRelease Date:November 10, 2003 [EBook #10002]Last updated: January 19, 2009Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND ***Produced by Suzanne Shell,Sjaani and PG Distributed ProofreadersTHE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLANDWilliam Hope Hodgson_Fromthe Manuscript discovered in 1877 by Messrs. Tonnison andBerreggnog in the Ruins that lie to the Southof the Village ofKraighten, in the West of Ireland. Set out here, with Notes_.TO MY FATHER_(Whose feettread the lost aeons)_Open the door,  And listen!Only the wind's muffled roar,  And the glistenOf tears'round the moon.  And, in fancy, the treadOf vanishing shoon--  Out in the night with the Dead."Hush!And hark  To the sorrowful cryOf the wind in the dark.  Hush and hark, without murmur or sigh,    Toshoon that tread the lost aeons:  To the sound that bids you to die.Hush and hark! Hush andHark!"                               _Shoon of the Dead_AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THE MANUSCRIPTManyare the hours in which I have pondered upon the story that is setforth in the following pages. I trust thatmy instincts are not awrywhen they prompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it washanded tome.And the MS. itself--You must picture me, when first it was given into mycare, turning it over,curiously, and making a swift, jerky examination.A small book it is; but thick, and all, save the last fewpages, filledwith a quaint but legible handwriting, and writ very close. I have thequeer, faint, pit-watersmell of it in my nostrils now as I write, andmy fingers have subconscious memories of the soft, "cloggy"feel of thelong-damp pages.I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible thatblind themind, and looked out into the unknown. Amid stiff, abruptsentences I wandered; and, presently, I had nofault to charge againsttheir abrupt tellings; for, better far than my own ambitious phrasing,is thismutilated story capable of bringing home all that the oldRecluse, of the vanished house, had striven totell.Of the simple, stiffly given account of weird and extraordinary matters,I will say little. It lies beforeyou. The inner story must be uncovered,personally, by each reader, according to ability and desire. Andevenshould any fail to see, as now I see, the shadowed picture and conceptionof that to which one maywell give the accepted titles of Heaven and Hell;yet can I promise certain thrills, merely taking the storyas a story.WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON December 17, 1907_I_THE FINDING OF THE MANUSCRIPTRightaway in the west of Ireland lies a tiny hamlet called Kraighten.It is situated, alone, at the base of a lowhill. Far around therespreads a waste of bleak and totally inhospitable country; where, hereand there atgreat intervals, one may come upon the ruins of some longdesolate cottage--unthatched and stark. Thewhole land is bare andunpeopled, the very earth scarcely covering the rock that lies beneathit, and withwhich the country abounds, in places rising out of the soilin wave-shaped ridges.Yet, in spite of itsdesolation, my friend Tonnison and I had elected tospend our vacation there. He had stumbled on theplace by mere chancethe year previously, during the course of a long walking tour, anddiscovered thepossibilities for the angler in a small and unnamed riverthat runs past the outskirts of the little village.Ihave said that the river is without name; I may add that no map that Ihave hitherto consulted has showneither village or stream. They seemto have entirely escaped observation: indeed, they might never existforall that the average guide tells one. Possibly this can be partlyaccounted for by the fact that thenearest railway station (Ardrahan) issome forty miles distant.It was early one warm evening when myfriend and I arrived in Kraighten.We had reached Ardrahan the previous night, sleeping there inroomshired at the village post office, and leaving in good time on thefollowing morning, clinginginsecurely to one of the typicaljaunting cars.It had taken us all day to accomplish our journey over someof theroughest tracks imaginable, with the result that we were thoroughlytired and somewhat badtempered. However, the tent had to be erected andour goods stowed away before we could think of foodor rest. And so weset to work, with the aid of our driver, and soon had the tent up upon asmall patch ofground just outside the little village, and quite near tothe river.Then, having stored all our belongings, we


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hour of the Dragon, by Robert E. HowardThis eBook is for the useof anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Hour of the DragonAuthor: Robert E. HowardRelease Date: March 2, 2013[EBook #42243]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUR OF THEDRAGON ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net                  THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON                   By Robert E.Howard    [Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales    December 1935, January,February, March and April 1936. Extensive    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on    this publication was renewed.]1O Sleeper, Awake!The long tapers flickered, sending theblack shadows wavering along thewalls, and the velvet tapestries rippled. Yet there was no wind inthechamber. Four men stood about the ebony table on which lay the greensarcophagus that gleamed likecarven jade. In the upraised right hand ofeach man a curious black candle burned with a weird greenishlight.Outside was night and a lost wind moaning among the black trees.Inside the chamber was tensesilence, and the wavering of the shadows,while four pairs of eyes, burning with intensity, were fixed onthe longgreen case across which cryptic hieroglyphics writhed, as if lent lifeand movement by theunsteady light. The man at the foot of thesarcophagus leaned over it and moved his candle as if he werewritingwith a pen, inscribing a mystic symbol in the air. Then he set down thecandle in its black gold stickat the foot of the case, and, mumblingsome formula unintelligible to his companions, he thrust a broadwhitehand into his fur-trimmed robe. When he brought it forth again it was asif he cupped in his palm aball of living fire.The other three drew in their breath sharply, and the dark, powerful manwho stood atthe head of the sarcophagus whispered: 'The Heart ofAhriman!' The other lifted a quick hand for silence.Somewhere a dogbegan howling dolefully, and a stealthy step padded outside the barredand bolted door.But none looked aside from the mummy-case over whichthe man in the ermine-trimmed robe was nowmoving the great flamingjewel while he muttered an incantation that was old when Atlantis sank.Theglare of the gem dazzled their eyes, so that they could not be sureof what they saw; but with asplintering crash, the carven lid of thesarcophagus burst outward as if from some irresistible pressureappliedfrom within, and the four men, bending eagerly forward, saw theoccupant--a huddled, withered,wizened shape, with dried brown limbslike dead wood showing through moldering bandages.'Bring thatthing _back_?' muttered the small dark man who stood on theright, with a short sardonic laugh. 'It isready to crumble at a touch.We are fools--''Shhh!' It was an urgent hiss of command from the large manwho held thejewel. Perspiration stood upon his broad white forehead and his eyeswere dilated. He leanedforward, and, without touching the thing withhis hand, laid on the breast of the mummy the blazingjewel. Then hedrew back and watched with fierce intensity, his lips moving insoundless invocation.It wasas if a globe of living fire flickered and burned on the dead,withered bosom. And breath sucked in,hissing, through the clenchedteeth of the watchers. For as they watched, an awful transmutationbecameapparent. The withered shape in the sarcophagus was expanding,was growing, lengthening. Thebandages burst and fell into brown dust.The shriveled limbs swelled, straightened. Their dusky hue begantofade.'By Mitra!' whispered the tall, yellow-haired man on the left. 'He was_not_ a Stygian. That part atleast was true.'Again a trembling finger warned for silence. The hound outside was nolonger howling. Hewhimpered, as with an evil dream, and then thatsound, too, died away in silence, in which theyellow-haired man plainlyheard the straining of the heavy door, as if something outside pushedpowerfullyupon it. He half turned, his hand at his sword, but the manin the ermine robe hissed an urgent warning:'Stay! Do not break thechain! And on your life do not go to the door!'The yellow-haired man shruggedand turned back, and then he stoppedshort, staring. In the jade sarcophagus lay a living man: a tall,lustyman, naked, white of skin, and dark of hair and beard. He laymotionless, his eyes wide open, andblank and unknowing as a newbornbabe's. On his breast the great jewel smoldered and sparkled.Theman in ermine reeled as if from some let-down of extreme tension.'Ishtar!' he gasped. 'It is


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Dying Detective, by Arthur Conan DoyleThiseBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You maycopy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBookor online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Adventure of the Dying DetectiveAuthor: Arthur ConanDoylePosting Date: October 23, 2008 [EBook #2347]Release Date: October, 2000[Last updated: May 3,2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURE OF DYINGDETECTIVE ***Produced by David Brannan.  HTML version by Al Haines.The Adventure of the DyingDetectiveBySir Arthur Conan DoyleMrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was along-sufferingwoman.  Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours bythrongs of singular andoften undesirable characters but her remarkablelodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his lifewhich musthave sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, hisaddiction to music at strangehours, his occasional revolver practicewithin doors, his weird and often malodorous scientificexperiments,and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him madehim the very worsttenant in London.  On the other hand, his paymentswere princely. I have no doubt that the house mighthave been purchasedat the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that Iwas withhim.The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared tointerfere with him, howeveroutrageous his proceedings might seem.  Shewas fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentlenessand courtesyin his dealings with women.  He disliked and distrusted the sex, but hewas always achivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regardfor him, I listened earnestly to her story whenshe came to my rooms inthe second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition towhich mypoor friend was reduced."He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she.  "For three days he has beensinking, and Idoubt if he will last the day.  He would not let me geta doctor.  This morning when I saw his bonessticking out of his faceand his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.'With your leaveor without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctorthis very hour,' said I.  'Let it be Watson, then,' saidhe.  Iwouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see himalive."I was horrified for I hadheard nothing of his illness.  I need not saythat I rushed for my coat and my hat.  As we drove back Iasked for thedetails."There is little I can tell you, sir.  He has been working at a casedown at Rotherhithe,in an alley near the river, and he has broughtthis illness back with him.  He took to his bed on Wednesdayafternoonand has never moved since.  For these three days neither food nor drinkhas passed hislips.""Good God!  Why did you not call in a doctor?""He wouldn't have it, sir.  You know how masterful heis.  I didn'tdare to disobey him.  But he's not long for this world, as you'll seefor yourself the moment thatyou set eyes on him."He was indeed a deplorable spectacle.  In the dim light of a foggyNovember day thesick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent achill to my heart.His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush uponeither cheek, anddark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands uponthe coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croakingandspasmodic.  He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight ofme brought a gleam of recognitionto his eyes."Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in afeeble voice, but withsomething of his old carelessness of manner."My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him."Standback!  Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousnesswhich I had associated only with momentsof crisis. "If you approachme, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.""But why?""Because it is mydesire.  Is that not enough?"Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right.  He was more masterful than ever.  It waspitiful,however, to see his exhaustion."I only wished to help," I explained."Exactly!  You will help best by doingwhat you are told.""Certainly, Holmes."He relaxed the austerity of his manner."You are not angry?" heasked, gasping for breath.Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plightbeforeme?"It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked."For MY sake?""I know what is the matter with me.  Itis a coolie disease fromSumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though theyhavemade little of it up to date.  One thing only is certain.  It isinfallibly deadly, and it is horriblycontagious."He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching andjerking as he motioned


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Agatha's Husband, by Dinah Maria Craik (AKA: Dinah MariaMulock)This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Licenseincludedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Agatha's Husband       A NovelAuthor:Dinah Maria Craik (AKA: Dinah Maria Mulock)Posting Date: March 13, 2009 [EBook #21767]ReleaseDate: June 8, 2007Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGATHA'SHUSBAND ***David WidgerAGATHA'S HUSBANDA NOVELBy The Author Of'John Halifax,Gentleman'DINAH MARIA CRAIK,AKA: Dinah Maria MulockWith Illustrations By Walter CraneMacmillanAnd Co.1875INSCRIBED TO M, P.,INMEMORIAL OF THE FRIENDSHIP OF A LIFETIME1852.LIST OFILLUSTRATIONS.The husband's farewell"She began leisurely to read""Will you accept it, with mylove?"Arrival at Kingcombe HolmOn horsebackAlong the roadAGATHA'S HUSBAND.CHAPTER I.--If thereever was a woman thoroughly like her name, it was AgathaBowen. She was good, in the first place--rightgood at heart, thoughwith a slight external roughness (like the sound of the g in her name),which tookaway all sentimentalism. Then the vowels--the three broadrich a's--which no one can pronounce withnimini-pimini closed lips--howthoroughly they answered to her character!--a character in the whichwasnothing small, mean, cramped, or crooked.But if we go on unfolding her in this way, there will not betheslightest use in writing her history, or that of one in whom her life isbeautifully involved andenclosed--as every married woman's should be--He was still in clouded mystery--an individual yet to be;and two otherindividuals had been "talking him over," feminine-fashion, in MissAgatha Bowen'sdrawing-room, much to that lady's amusement andedification. For, being moderately rich, she had herown suite of roomsin the house where she boarded; and having no mother--sorrowful lot fora girl ofnineteen!--she sometimes filled her drawing-room with veryuseless and unprofitable acquaintances.These two married ladies--oneyoung, the other old--Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Thornycroft--had been for thelasthalf-hour vexing their very hearts out to find Agatha a husband--aweakness which, it must be confessed,lurks in the heart of almost everymarried lady.Agatha had been laughing at it, alternately flushing up orlookingscornful, as her mouth had a natural propensity for looking; balancingherself occasionally on thearm of the sofa, which, being rather smalland of a light figure, she could do with both impunity andgrace; orelse rushing to the open window, ostensibly to let her black kitteninvestigate street-sights fromits mistress's shoulder. Agatha was verymuch of a child still, or could be when she chose.Mrs. Hill hadbeen regretting some two or three "excellent matches" ofwhich she felt sure Miss Bowen had thrownaway her chance; and youngMrs. Thornycroft had tried hard to persuade her dearest Agatha howverymuch happier she would be in a house of her own, than as a boarder evenin this excellent physician'sfamily. But Agatha only laughed on, anddevoted herself more than ever to the black kitten.She was, Ifear, a damsel who rather neglected the _biensÃ©ances_ oflife. Only, in her excuse, it must be allowedthat her friends weredoing what they had no earthly business to do; since; if there is onesubject above allupon which a young woman has a right to keep herthoughts, feelings, and intentions to herself, and toexact from othersthe respect of silence, it is that of marriage. Possibly, Agatha Bowenwas of thisopinion."Mrs. Hill, you are a very kind, good soul: and Emma Thornycroft, I likeyou very much; butif--(Oh! be quiet, Tittens!)--if you could manage tolet me and 'my Husband' alone."These were the onlyserious words she said--and they were but halfserious; she evidently felt such an irresistible propensity tolaugh."Now," continued she, turning the conversation, and putting on adignified aspect, whichoccasionally she took it into her head toassume, though more in playfulness than earnest--"now let metell youwho you will meet here at dinner to-day.""Major Harper, of course.""I do not see the 'of course'Mrs. Thornycroft," returned Agatha,rather sharply; then, melting into a smile, she added: "Well,'ofcourse,' as you say; what more likely visitor could I have than myguardian?""Trustee, my dear;guardians belong to romances, where young ladies arealways expected to hate, or fall in love withthem."Agatha flushed slightly. Now, unlike most girls, Miss Bowen did not lookpretty when she blushed;her skin being very dark, and not over clear,the red blood coursing under it dyed her cheek, not


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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Reef, by Edith WhartonThis eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The ReefAuthor: Edith WhartonPosting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook#283]Release Date: June, 1995Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEREEF ***Produced by Gail Jahn, and John HammTHE REEFby Edith WhartonBOOK II"Unexpectedobstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth. Anna."All the way from Charing Cross to Dover the train hadhammered the wordsof the telegram into George Darrow's ears, ringing every change of ironyon itscommonplace syllables: rattling them out like a discharge ofmusketry, letting them, one by one, dripslowly and coldly into hisbrain, or shaking, tossing, transposing them like the dice in some gameof thegods of malice; and now, as he emerged from his compartment atthe pier, and stood facing thewind-swept platform and the angry seabeyond, they leapt out at him as if from the crest of the waves,stungand blinded him with a fresh fury of derision."Unexpected obstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth.Anna."She had put him off at the very last moment, and for the second time:put him off with all hersweet reasonableness, and for one of her usual"good" reasons--he was certain that this reason, like theother, (thevisit of her husband's uncle's widow) would be "good"! But it was thatvery certainty whichchilled him. The fact of her dealing so reasonablywith their case shed an ironic light on the idea that therehad been anyexceptional warmth in the greeting she had given him after their twelveyears apart.Theyhad found each other again, in London, some three monthspreviously, at a dinner at the AmericanEmbassy, and when she had caughtsight of him her smile had been like a red rose pinned on herwidow'smourning. He still felt the throb of surprise with which, amongthe stereotyped faces of theseason's diners, he had come upon herunexpected face, with the dark hair banded above grave eyes;eyes inwhich he had recognized every little curve and shadow as he would haverecognized, after half alife-time, the details of a room he had playedin as a child. And as, in the plumed starred crowd, she hadstood outfor him, slender, secluded and different, so he had felt, the instanttheir glances met, that he assharply detached himself for her. All thatand more her smile had said; had said not merely "I remember,"but "Iremember just what you remember"; almost, indeed, as though her memoryhad aided his, herglance flung back on their recaptured moment itsmorning brightness. Certainly, when their distractedAmbassadress--withthe cry: "Oh, you know Mrs. Leath? That's perfect, for General Farnhamhas failedme"--had waved them together for the march to the dining-room,Darrow had felt a slight pressure of thearm on his, a pressure faintlybut unmistakably emphasizing the exclamation: "Isn't itwonderful?--InLondon--in the season--in a mob?"Little enough, on the part of most women; but it was asign of Mrs.Leath's quality that every movement, every syllable, told with her. Evenin the old days, as anintent grave-eyed girl, she had seldom misplacedher light strokes; and Darrow, on meeting her again,had immediatelyfelt how much finer and surer an instrument of expression she hadbecome.Their eveningtogether had been a long confirmation of this feeling. Shehad talked to him, shyly yet frankly, of whathad happened to her duringthe years when they had so strangely failed to meet. She had told himof hermarriage to Fraser Leath, and of her subsequent life in France,where her husband's mother, left a widowin his youth, had beenre-married to the Marquis de Chantelle, and where, partly in consequenceof thissecond union, the son had permanently settled himself. She hadspoken also, with an intense eagernessof affection, of her little girlEffie, who was now nine years old, and, in a strain hardly less tender,of OwenLeath, the charming clever young stepson whom her husband'sdeath had left to her care...A porter,stumbling against Darrow's bags, roused him to the fact thathe still obstructed the platform, inert andencumbering as his luggage."Crossing, sir?"Was he crossing? He really didn't know; but for lack of anymorecompelling impulse he followed the porter to the luggage van, singledout his property, and turned tomarch behind it down the gang-way. Asthe fierce wind shouldered him, building up a crystal wall againsthisefforts, he felt anew the derision of his case."Nasty weather to cross, sir," the porter threw back at himas they beattheir way down the narrow walk to the pier. Nasty weather, indeed; butluckily, as it had


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lothair, by Benjamin DisraeliThis eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: LothairAuthor: Benjamin DisraeliRelease Date: April, 2005  [EBook#7835]Posting Date: July 27, 2009Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKLOTHAIR ***Produced by K. Kay ShearinLOTHAIRBy Benjamin DisraeliCHAPTER 1"I remember him alittle boy," said the duchess, "a pretty little boy,but very shy. His mother brought him to us one day. Shewas a dearfriend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids?""And you have never seen himsince, mamma?" inquired a married daughter,who looked like the younger sister of her mother."Never;he was an orphan shortly after; I have often reproached myself,but it is so difficult to see boys. Then, henever went to school, butwas brought up in the Highlands with a rather savage uncle; and if heandBertram had not become friends at Christchurch, I do not well seehow we ever could have knownhim."These remarks were made in the morning-room of Brentham, where themistress of the mansion satsurrounded by her daughters, all occupiedwith various works. One knitted a purse, another adorned aslipper athird emblazoned a page. Beautiful forms in counsel leaned over framesembroidery, while twofair sisters more remote occasionally burst intomelody as they tried the passages of a new air, which hadbeen dedicatedto them in the manuscript of some devoted friend.The duchess, one of the greatestheiresses of Britain, singularlybeautify and gifted with native grace, had married in her teens one ofthewealthiest and most powerful of our nobles, and scarcely order thanherself. Her husband was asdistinguished for his appearance and hismanners as his bride, and those who speculate on race wereinterestedin watching the development of their progeny, who in form and color, andvoice, and manner,and mind, were a reproduction of their parents,who seemed only the elder brother and sister of a giftedcircle. Thedaughters with one exception came first, and all met the same fate.After seventeen years of adelicious home they were presented, andimmediately married; and all to personages of highconsideration. Afterthe first conquest, this fate seemed as regular as the order of Nature.Then came ason, who was now at Christchurch, and then several others,some at school, and some scarcely out of thenursery. There was onedaughter unmarried, and she was to be presented next season. Thoughthe familylikeness was still apparent in Lady Corisande, in generalexpression she differed from her sisters. Theywere all alike with theirdelicate aquiline noses, bright complexions, short upper lips, and eyesof sunnylight. The beauty of Lady Corisande was even more distinguishedand more regular, but whether it werethe effect of her dark-brown hairand darker eyes, her countenance had not the lustre of the res, anditsexpression was grave and perhaps pensive.The duke, though still young, and naturally of a gay andjoyoustemperament, had a high sense of duty, and strong domestic feelings. Hewas never wanting in hispublic place, and he was fond of his wife andhis children; still more, proud of them. Every day when helooked intothe glass, and gave the last touch to his consummate toilet, he offeredhis grateful thanks toProvidence that his family was not unworthy ofhim.His grace was accustomed to say that he had only onemisfortune, andit was a great one; he had no home. His family had married so manyheiresses, and he,consequently, possessed so many halls and castles, atall of which, periodically, he wished, from a rightfeeling, to reside,that there was no sacred spot identified with his life in which hisheart, in the bustle andtumult of existence, could take refuge.Brentham was the original seat of his family, and he wasevenpassionately fond of it; but it was remarkable how very short a periodof his yearly life was passedunder its stately roof. So it was hiscustom always to repair to Brentham the moment the season wasover, andhe would exact from his children, that, however short might be the time,they would be hiscompanions under those circumstances. The daughtersloved Brentham, and they loved to please theirfather; but thesons-in-law, though they were what is called devoted to their wives,and, unusual as it mayseem, scarcely less attached to their legalparents, did not fall very easily into this arrangement. Thecountryin August without sport was unquestionably to them a severe trial:nevertheless, they rarelyomitted making their appearance, and, if theydid occasionally vanish, sometimes to Cowes, sometimes to


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rainbow Valley, by Lucy Maud MontgomeryThis eBook is for the use ofanyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Rainbow ValleyAuthor: Lucy Maud MontgomeryRelease Date: March, 2004[EBook #5343]This file was first posted on July 3, 2002Last Updated: April 15, 2013Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW VALLEY ***Produced by Bernard J.Farber, Carmen Baxter, Dona Rucci,Elizabeth Morton, Rebekah Neely, Joe Johnson, Joan Chovan,JudithFetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake, Sally Starks,Steve Callis, Virginia Mohlere-Dellinger, MaryMarkOckerbloom and Ben CrowderRAINBOW VALLEYBy L. M. MontgomeryAuthor of "Anne of GreenGables," "Anne of the Island," "Anne's House ofDreams," "The Story Girl," "The Watchman,"etc.________________________________________________________________________This bookhas been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative atthe Celebration of Women Writers throughthe combined work of Bernard J.Farber, Carmen Baxter, Dona Rucci, Elizabeth Morton, Rebekah Neely,JoeJohnson, Joan Chovan, Judith Fetterolf, Mary Nuzzo, Sally Drake,Sally Starks, Steve Callis, VirginiaMohlere-Dellinger and Mary MarkOckerbloom.http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/Reformatted byBen Crowder________________________________________________________________________               "The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."               --LONGFELLOWTO THE MEMORYOFGOLDWIN LAPP, ROBERT BROOKES AND MORLEY SHIERWHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE THATTHE HAPPY VALLEYS OF THEIR HOME LANDMIGHT BE KEPT SACRED FROM THE RAVAGE OF THEINVADERCONTENTS      I. Home Again     II. Sheer Gossip    III. The Ingleside Children     IV. The ManseChildren      V. The Advent of Mary Vanse     VI. Mary Stays at the Manse    VII. A Fishy Episode   VIII.Miss Cornelia Intervenes     IX. Una Intervenes      X. The Manse Girls Clean House     XI. A DreadfulDiscovery    XII. An Explanation and a Dare   XIII. The House on the Hill    XIV. Mrs. Alec Davis Makes aCall     XV. More Gossip    XVI. Tit for Tat   XVII. A Double Victory  XVIII. Mary Brings Evil Tidings    XIX.Poor Adam!     XX. Faith Makes a Friend    XXI. The Impossible Word   XXII. St. George Knows All AboutIt  XXIII. The Good-Conduct Club   XXIV. A Charitable Impulse    XXV. Another Scandal and Another"Explanation"   XXVI. Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of View  XXVII. A Sacred Concert XXVIII. A FastDay   XXIX. A Weird Tale    XXX. The Ghost on the Dyke   XXXI. Carl Does Penance  XXXII. Two StubbornPeople XXXIII. Carl Is--not--whipped  XXXIV. Una Visits the Hill   XXXV. "Let the Piper Come"RAINBOWVALLEYCHAPTER I. HOME AGAINIt was a clear, apple-green evening in May, and Four Winds Harbourwasmirroring back the clouds of the golden west between its softly darkshores. The sea moaned eerily onthe sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring,but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the red harbour road alongwhichMiss Cornelia's comfortable, matronly figure was making its way towardsthe village of Glen St.Mary. Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. MarshallElliott, and had been Mrs. Marshall Elliott for thirteenyears, but evenyet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs.Elliott. The old name wasdear to her old friends, only one of themcontemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim andfaithfulhandmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, never lost an opportunityof calling her "Mrs.Marshall Elliott," with the most killing andpointed emphasis, as if to say "You wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs.you shallbe with a vengeance as far as I am concerned."Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to seeDr. and Mrs. Blythe, whowere just home from Europe. They had been away for three months, havingleftin February to attend a famous medical congress in London; andcertain things, which Miss Cornelia wasanxious to discuss, had takenplace in the Glen during their absence. For one thing, there was a newfamilyin the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook her headover them several times as she walkedbriskly along.Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as theysat on the bigveranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat'slight, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistlingamong the twilit maples,and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old,mellow, redbrick wall of the lawn.Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking,in the kinddusk, as girlish as a mother of many has any right to be;and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Eagle Cliff, by R.M. BallantyneThis eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Eagle CliffAuthor: R.M. BallantyneRelease Date: November 6, 2007 [EBook#23373]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EAGLE CLIFF***Produced by Nick Hodson of London, EnglandThe Eagle Cliff, by R.M. Ballantyne.________________________________________________________________________This is a truly delightful book by thisprolific author.  I know of noother of his books that leaves so many images in the mind, so freshaftermany a year.  The scene starts with a young man cycling on hispenny-farthing towards London.  On theway he has an accident, knockingdown an elderly lady, but fleeing the scene when he sees apolicemancoming.  But when he gets home he finds a telegram informing him thathis friends will bedeparting very soon in a yacht, to visit theislands on the North-West of Britain, so he joinsthem.Unfortunately there is a fog and the yacht is damaged but all the youngmen and their crew manageto get ashore, finding themselves in theneighbourhood of a large house, the residence of a gentlemanand hisfamily.  They are invited to stay there as his guests, and it is atthis point that the adventuresbegin, involving fishing, shooting,bird-watching, sailing and so forth.  There is a charming young ladyalsostaying in the house, and deploying her hobby of painting.  Ourhero falls in love with her, but is verymuch taken aback when she isjoined by her mother, who turns out to be none other than the elderlyladyhe had knocked down back in London.  Even more disastrous was thefire that destroyed the house.  Thisis a brilliant book, and you willlove it.As a footnote you may be surprised that one of the children iscalledJunkie.  This certainly does not mean that same as it does today:instead it is a nickname given to afavourite boy-child, and you willfind several examples of this in Ballantyne'sbooks.________________________________________________________________________THEEAGLE CLIFF, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.CHAPTER ONE.BEGINS THE TALE--NATURALLY.From the earliestrecords of history we learn that man has ever beenenvious of the birds, and of all other wingedcreatures.  He has longedand striven to fly.  He has also signally failed to do so.We say "failed" advisedly,because his various attempts in thatdirection have usually resulted in disappointment and brokenbones.  Asto balloons, we do not admit that they fly any more than do ships;balloons merely float andglide, when not otherwise engaged in tumbling,collapsing, and bursting.This being so, we draw attentionto the fact that the nearest approachwe have yet made to the sensation of flying is that achieved byrushingdown a long, smooth, steep hill-road on a well-oiled and perfectball-bearings bicycle!  Skatingcannot compare with this, for thatrequires exertion; bicycling down hill requires none.  Hunting cannot,nomatter how splendid the mount, for that implies a certain element ofbumping, which, however pleasant initself, is not suggestive of thesmooth swift act of flying.We introduce this subject merely becausethoughts somewhat similar tothose which we have so inadequately expressed were burning in the brainofa handsome and joyful young man one summer morning not long ago, as,with legs over the handles, heflashed--if he did not actually fly--downone of our Middlesex hills on his way to London.Urgent haste wasin every look and motion of that young man's fine eyesand lithe body.  He would have bought wings atany price had that beenpossible; but, none being yet in the market, he made the most of hiswheel--afifty-eight inch one, by the way, for the young man's legs werelong, as well as strong.Arrived at thebottom of the hill the hilarious youth put his feet tothe treadles, and drove the machine vigorously up theopposite slope.It was steep, but he was powerful.  He breathed hard, no doubt, but henever flagged untilhe gained the next summit.  A shout burst from hislips as he rolled along the level top, for there, aboutten miles off,lay the great city, glittering in the sunshine, and with only anamber-tinted canopy of itsusual smoke above it.Among the tall elms and in the flowering hedgerows between which heswept,innumerable birds warbled or twittered their astonishment that hecould fly with such heedless rapiditythrough that beautiful country,and make for the dismal town in such magnificent weather.  Oneaspiringlark overhead seemed to repeat, with persistent intensity, its trill ofself gratulation that it had not


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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Coming Race, by Edward Bulwer LyttonThis eBook is for the use ofanyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Coming RaceAuthor: Edward Bulwer LyttonRelease Date: February 18,2006 [EBook #1951]Last Updated: August 28, 2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMING RACE ***Produced by Fred Ihde and DavidWidgerTHE COMING RACEby Edward Bulwer, Lord LyttonChapter I.I am a native of _____, in the UnitedStates of America. My ancestorsmigrated from England in the reign of Charles II.; and mygrandfatherwas not undistinguished in the War of Independence. My family,therefore, enjoyed asomewhat high social position in right of birth;and being also opulent, they were considered disqualifiedfor the publicservice. My father once ran for Congress, but was signally defeated byhis tailor. After thatevent he interfered little in politics, and livedmuch in his library. I was the eldest of three sons, and sentat the ageof sixteen to the old country, partly to complete my literary education,partly to commence mycommercial training in a mercantile firm atLiverpool. My father died shortly after I was twenty-one; andbeing leftwell off, and having a taste for travel and adventure, I resigned, fora time, all pursuit of thealmighty dollar, and became a desultorywanderer over the face of the earth.In the year 18__, happeningto be in _____, I was invited by aprofessional engineer, with whom I had made acquaintance, to visittherecesses of the ________ mine, upon which he was employed.The reader will understand, ere heclose this narrative, my reason forconcealing all clue to the district of which I write, and will perhapsthankme for refraining from any description that may tend to itsdiscovery.Let me say, then, as briefly aspossible, that I accompanied theengineer into the interior of the mine, and became sostrangelyfascinated by its gloomy wonders, and so interested in my friendsexplorations, that Iprolonged my stay in the neighbourhood, anddescended daily, for some weeks, into the vaults andgalleries hollowedby nature and art beneath the surface of the earth. The engineer waspersuaded that farricher deposits of mineral wealth than had yet beendetected, would be found in a new shaft that hadbeen commenced underhis operations. In piercing this shaft we came one day upon a chasmjagged andseemingly charred at the sides, as if burst asunder at somedistant period by volcanic fires. Down thischasm my friend causedhimself to be lowered in a cage, having first tested the atmosphereby thesafety-lamp. He remained nearly an hour in the abyss. When hereturned he was very pale, and with ananxious, thoughtful expressionof face, very different from its ordinary character, which wasopen,cheerful, and fearless.He said briefly that the descent appeared to him unsafe, and leading tonoresult; and, suspending further operations in the shaft, we returnedto the more familiar parts of themine.All the rest of that day the engineer seemed preoccupied by someabsorbing thought. He wasunusually taciturn, and there was a scared,bewildered look in his eyes, as that of a man who has seen aghost. Atnight, as we two were sitting alone in the lodging we shared togethernear the mouth of themine, I said to my friend,--Tell me frankly what you saw in that chasm: I am sure it wassomethingstrange and terrible. Whatever it be, it has left your mind in a stateof doubt. In such a casetwo heads are better than one. Confide in me.The engineer long endeavoured to evade my inquiries;but as, while hespoke, he helped himself unconsciously out of the brandy-flask to adegree to which hewas wholly unaccustomed, for he was a very temperateman, his reserve gradually melted away. He whowould keep himself tohimself should imitate the dumb animals, and drink water. At last hesaid, I willtell you all. When the cage stopped, I found myself ona ridge of rock; and below me, the chasm, taking aslanting direction,shot down to a considerable depth, the darkness of which my lamp couldnot havepenetrated. But through it, to my infinite surprise, streamedupward a steady brilliant light. Could it beany volcanic fire? In thatcase, surely I should have felt the heat. Still, if on this there wasdoubt, it was ofthe utmost importance to our common safety to clear itup. I examined the sides of the descent, andfound that I could ventureto trust myself to the irregular projection of ledges, at least for someway. I leftthe cage and clambered down. As I drew nearer and nearer tothe light, the chasm became wider, and at


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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of BussyD'Ambois, by GeorgeChapmanThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Licenseincludedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of BussyD'AmboisAuthor: George ChapmanEditor: Frederick S. BoasRelease Date: March 24, 2007 [EBook#20890]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERGEBOOK BUSSY D'AMBOIS ***Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Ted Garvin, Lisa Reigel,Michael Zeug, andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat http://www.pgdp.netTranscriber's Note: Words italicized inthe original are surrounded by_underscores_. Words in bold in the original are surrounded by=equalsigns=. Greek words may not display properly--in that case, try theplain text version.BUSSYD'AMBOISANDTHE REVENGE OFBUSSY D'AMBOISBY GEORGE CHAPMANEDITED BYFREDERICK S. BOAS,M.A.PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE INQUEEN'S COLLEGE, BELFASTBOSTON, U.S.A., ANDLONDOND. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS1905COPYRIGHT, 1905, BYD. C. HEATH & CO.Prefatory NoteInthis volume an attempt is made for the first time to edit _BussyD'Ambois_ and _The Revenge of BussyD'Ambois_ in a manner suitable tothe requirements of modern scholarship. Of the relations of thiseditionto its predecessors some details are given in the Notes on the Text ofthe two plays. But in thesefew prefatory words I should like to callattention to one or two points, and make someacknowledgments.The immediate source of _Bussy D'Ambois_ still remains undiscovered. Buttheepisodes in the career of Chapman's hero, vouched for bycontemporaries like BrantÃ´me and Margueriteof Valois, and related insome detail in my _Introduction_, are typical of the material which thedramatistworked upon. And an important clue to the spirit in which hehandled it is the identification, here firstmade, of part of Bussy'sdying speech with lines put by Seneca into the mouth of Hercules in hislast agonyon Mount Oeta. The exploits of D'Ambois were in Chapman'simaginative vision those of a semi-mythicalhero rather than of aFrenchman whose life overlapped with his own.On the _provenance_ of _TheRevenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ I have beenfortunately able, with valuable assistance from others, to castmuch newlight. In an article in _The AthenÃ¦um_, Jan. 10, 1903, I showed that theimmediate source ofmany of the episodes in the play was EdwardGrimeston's translation (1607) of Jean de Serres's_Inventaire GÃ©nÃ©ralde l'Histoire de France_. Since that date I owe to Mr. H. Richards,Fellow ofWadham College, Oxford, the important discovery that a numberof speeches in the play are borrowedfrom the _Discourses_ of Epictetus,from whom Chapman drew his conception of the character ofClermontD'Ambois. My brother-in-law, Mr. S. G. Owen, Student of Christ Church,has given me valuablehelp in explaining some obscure classicalallusions. Dr. J. A. H. Murray, the editor of the _NewEnglishDictionary_, has kindly furnished me with the interpretation of adifficult passage in _BussyD'Ambois_; and Mr. W. J. Craig, editor ofthe _Arden_ Shakespeare, and Mr. Le Gay Brereton, of theUniversity ofSidney, have been good enough to proffer helpful suggestions. Finally Iam indebted toProfessor George P. Baker, the General Editor of thisSeries, for valuable advice and help on a largenumber of points, whilethe proofs of this volume were passing through thepress.                                                           F. S. B.BiographyGeorge Chapman was probably born inthe year after Elizabeth'saccession. Anthony Wood gives 1557 as the date, but the inscription onhisportrait, prefixed to the edition of _The Whole Works of Homer_ in1616, points to 1559. He was a nativeof Hitchin in Hertfordshire, as welearn from an allusion in his poem _EuthymiÃ¦ Raptus_ or _The TearesofPeace_, and from W. Browne's reference to him in _Britannia's Pastorals_as "the learned shepheard offaire Hitching Hill." According to Wood "in1574 or thereabouts, he being well grounded in school learningwas sentto the University." Wood is uncertain whether he went first to Oxford orto Cambridge, but he issure, though he gives no authority for thestatement, that Chapman spent some time at the former"where he wasobserved to be most excellent in the Latin & Greek tongues, but not inlogic or philosophy,and therefore I presume that that was the reasonwhy he took no degree there."His life for almost acouple of decades afterwards is a blank, though ithas been conjectured on evidences drawn from _The


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Anne Of Avonlea, by Lucy Maud MontgomeryThis eBook is for the useof anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Anne Of AvonleaAuthor: Lucy Maud MontgomeryRelease Date: March 7, 2006[EBook #47]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE OF AVONLEA***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David WidgerANNE OF AVONLEAby Lucy MaudMontgomeryTomy former teacherHATTIE GORDON SMITHin grateful remembrance of hersympathy andencouragement.     Flowers spring to blossom where she walks     The careful ways of duty,     Our hard,stiff lines of life with her     Are flowing curves of beauty.     --WHITTIER     I         An IrateNeighbor     II        Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure     III       Mr. Harrison atHome     IV        Different Opinions47     V         A Full-fledged Schoolma'am     VI        All Sorts andConditions of Men . . . and women     VII       The Pointing of Duty     VIII      Marilla AdoptsTwins     IX        A Question of Color     X         Davy in Search of a Sensation     XI        Facts andFancies     XII       A Jonah Day     XIII      A Golden Picnic     XIV       A Danger Averted     XV        TheBeginning of Vacation     XVI       The Substance of Things Hoped For     XVII      A Chapter ofAccidents     XVIII     An Adventure on the Tory Road     XIX       Just a Happy Day     XX        The Way ItOften Happens     XXI       Sweet Miss Lavendar     XXII      Odds and Ends     XXIII     Miss Lavendar'sRomance     XXIV      A Prophet in His Own Country     XXV       An Avonlea Scandal     XXVI      Aroundthe Bend     XXVII     An Afternoon at the Stone House     XXVIII    The Prince Comes Back to theEnchanted Palace     XXIX      Poetry and Prose     XXX       A Wedding at the Stone HouseIAn IrateNeighborA tall, slim girl, "half-past sixteen," with serious gray eyes and hairwhich her friends calledauburn, had sat down on the broad red sandstonedoorstep of a Prince Edward Island farmhouse one ripeafternoon inAugust, firmly resolved to construe so many lines of Virgil.But an August afternoon, with bluehazes scarfing the harvest slopes,little winds whispering elfishly in the poplars, and a dancing slendorofred poppies outflaming against the dark coppice of young firs in acorner of the cherry orchard, was fitterfor dreams than dead languages.The Virgil soon slipped unheeded to the ground, and Anne, herchinpropped on her clasped hands, and her eyes on the splendid mass offluffy clouds that were heapingup just over Mr. J. A. Harrison's houselike a great white mountain, was far away in a delicious worldwhere acertain schoolteacher was doing a wonderful work, shaping the destiniesof future statesmen, andinspiring youthful minds and hearts with highand lofty ambitions.To be sure, if you came down to harshfacts . . . which, it must beconfessed, Anne seldom did until she had to . . . it did not seem likelythatthere was much promising material for celebrities in Avonleaschool; but you could never tell what mighthappen if a teacher usedher influence for good. Anne had certain rose-tinted ideals of what ateachermight accomplish if she only went the right way about it; andshe was in the midst of a delightful scene,forty years hence, with afamous personage . . . just exactly what he was to be famous for was leftinconvenient haziness, but Anne thought it would be rather nice to havehim a college president or aCanadian premier . . . bowing low over herwrinkled hand and assuring her that it was she who had firstkindled hisambition, and that all his success in life was due to the lessons shehad instilled so long ago inAvonlea school. This pleasant vision wasshattered by a most unpleasant interruption.A demure littleJersey cow came scuttling down the lane and five secondslater Mr. Harrison arrived . . . if "arrived" be nottoo mild a term todescribe the manner of his irruption into the yard.He bounced over the fence withoutwaiting to open the gate, and angrilyconfronted astonished Anne, who had risen to her feet and stoodlookingat him in some bewilderment. Mr. Harrison was their new righthandneighbor and she had nevermet him before, although she had seen himonce or twice.In early April, before Anne had come home fromQueen's, Mr. Robert Bell,whose farm adjoined the Cuthbert place on the west, had sold out andmoved toCharlottetown. His farm had been bought by a certain Mr. J. A.Harrison, whose name, and the fact thathe was a New Brunswick man, wereall that was known about him. But before he had been a month inAvonleahe had won the reputation of being an odd person . . . "a crank," Mrs.Rachel Lynde said. Mrs.


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