SHERLOCK HOLMESTHE ADVENTURE OF THE BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANby Sir Arthur Conan DoyleIn the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fogsettled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubtwhether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to seethe loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent incross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third hadbeen patiently occupied upon a subject which he had recently madehis hobby- the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth...　

The Day of the Confederacy, A Chronicle of the Embattled Southby Nathaniel W. StephensonCONTENTSI. THE SECESSION MOVEMENTII. THE DAVIS GOVERNMENTIII. THE FALL OF KING COTTONIV. THE REACTION AGAINST RICHMONDV. THE CRITICAL YEARVI. LIFE IN THE CONFEDERACYVII. THE TURNING OF THE TIDEVIII. A GAME OF CHANCEIX. DESPERATE REMEDIES X. DISINTEGRATIONXI. AN ATTEMPTED REVOLUTIONXII. THE LAST WORDBIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTETHE DAY OF THE CONFEDERACYChapter I. The Secession MovementThe secession movement had three distinct stages. The first,...　

AN ODYSSEY OF THE NORTH.ITHE SLEDS WERE SINGING their eternal lament to the creaking of theharness and the tinkling bells of the leaders; but the men and dogswere tired and made no sound. The trail was heavy with new-fallensnow, and they had come far, and the runners, burdened with flint-likequarters of frozen moose, clung tenaciously to the unpacked surfaceand held back with a stubbornness almost human. Darkness was comingon, but there was no camp to pitch that night. The snow fell gently...　

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENTHE BUTTERFLYby Hans Christian AndersenTHERE was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as maybe supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among theflowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds,and found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on theirstalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; butthere was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his searchwould become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too...　

　　I ignored the questions in the eyes of the groom as I lowered the grisly parcel and turned the horse in for care and maintenance. My cloak could not really conceal the nature of its contents as I slung the guts over my shoulder and stamped off toward the rear entrance to the palace. Hell would soon be demanding its paycheck.　I skirted the exercise area and made my way to the trail that led toward the southern end of the palace gardens. Fewer eyes along that route. I would still be spotted, but it would be a lot less awkward than going in the front way, where things are always busy. Damn....　

　Douglas Preston dedicates this book to Stuart Woods.　　Acknowledgments　Lincoln Child wishes to thank Bruce Swanson, Bry Benjamin, M.D., Lee Suckno, M.D., Irene Soderlund, Mary Ellen Mix, Bob Wincott, Sergio and Mila Nepomuceno, Jim Cush, Chris Yango, Jim Jenkins, Mark Mendel, Juliette Kvernland, Hartley Clark, and Denis Kelly, for their friendship and their assistance, both technical and otherwise. Thanks also to my wife, Luchie, for her love and unstinting support. And I would especially like to acknowledge as an inspiration my grandmother Nora Kubie. Artist, novelist, archaeologist, indepen　

　BY THE TIME they have finished this book, many readers will be uneasy, frightened, perhaps even horrified. Once entertained, however, they will be tempted to dismiss Night Chills as quickly as they might a novel about demonic possession or reincarnation. Although this story is intended primarily to be a "good read," I cannot stress strongly enough that the basic subject matter is more than merely a fantasy of mine; it is a reality and already a major influence on all our lives.　Subliminal and subaudial advertising, carefully planned manipulation of our subconscious minds, became a serious th　

　　　Fire from the sky came thrusting down, a dazzling crooked spear of white light that lived for an instant only, long enough to splinter a lone tree at the jutting edge of the seaside cliff. The impact beneath the howling darkness of the sky stunned eyes and ears alike. Ben winced away from the blinding flash - too late, of course, to do his shocked eyes any good - and turned his gaze downward, trying to see the path again, to find secure places to put down his sandaled feet. In night and wind and rain it was hard to judge how far away the stroke had fallen, but he could hope that the next o　

　A RED-HAIRED GIRL　　THE residence of Mr. Peter Pett, the well-known financier, on Riverside Drive is one of the leading eyesores of that breezy and expensive boulevard. As you pass by in your limousine, or while enjoying ten cents worth of fresh air on top of a green omnibus, it jumps out and bites at you. Architects, confronted with it, reel and throw up their hands defensively, and even the lay observer has a sense of shock. The place resembles in almost equal proportions a cathedral, a suburban villa, a hotel and a Chinese pagoda. Many of its windows are of stained glass, and above the por　

The Moon and SixpenceThe Moon and Sixpenceby W. Somerset MaughamAuthor of "Of Human Bondage"1- Page 2-The Moon and SixpenceChapter II confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles StricklandI never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of theordinary. Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I do not...　

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENTHE SUNBEAM AND THE CAPTIVEby Hans Christian AndersenIT is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea.We look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on theopposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waterswhich mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood issharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leavesflutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, standsa gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space betweenis dark and narrow, but still more dismal m　

MEMOIRS OF CARWIN THE BILOQUIST [A fragment]MEMOIRS OFCARWIN THEBILOQUIST [A fragment]Charles Brockden Brown1- Page 2-MEMOIRS OF CARWIN THE BILOQUIST [A fragment]Chapter I.I was the second son of a farmer, whose place of residence was awestern district of Pennsylvania. My eldest brother seemed fitted by...　

ADVERTISEMENT TO EDITION 1829It has been the occasional occupation of the Author of Waverley forseveral years past to revise and correct the voluminous series ofNovels which pass under that name, in order that, if they shouldever appear as his avowed productions, he might render them insome degree deserving of a continuance of the public favour withwhich they have been honoured ever since their first appearance. Fora long period, however, it seemed likely that the improved and illustratededition which he meditated would be a posthumous publication.But the course of the events which occasioned　

　　　　　　She was sitting there at her glass, at the fashionable going-out hour, trying to decide between a cluster of crystal grapes and a live gardenia as a shoulder decoration, when someone knocked at the suite door, outside across the adjoining reception room.　　Whatever her decision was in the matter, she knew it would have a city-wide effect. It meant that for the next few weeks hundreds of young women would either all be wearing clusters of crystal grapes or live gardenias.　　It was hard to believe that just a couple of brief years ago no one had cared a rap what she stuck on her shoulder. N　

　　　　THE BOOK OF BLOOD　　　　THE MIDNIGHT MEAT TRAIN　　　　THE YATTERING AND JACK　　　　PIG BLOOD AND STARSHINE　　　　IN THE HILLS, THE CITIES　　　　THE BOOK OF BLOOD　　　　　　THE DEAD HAVE highways.　　They run, unerring lines of ghost-trains, of dream-carriages, across the wasteland behind our lives, bearing an endless traffic of departed souls. Their thrum and throb can be heard in the broken places of the world, through cracks made by acts of cruelty, violence and depravity. Their freight, the wandering dead, can be glimpsed when the heart is close to bursting, and sights that should be hidden e plainly into v　

　　I stood there on the beach and said, "Good-by, Butterfly," and the ship slowly turned, then headed out toward deep water. It would make it back into port at the lighthouse of Cabra, I knew, for that place lay near to Shadow.　Turning away, I regarded the black line of trees near at hand, knowing that a long walk lay ahead of me. I moved in that direction, making the necessary adjustments as I advanced. A pre-dawn chill lay upon the silent forest, and this was good.　I was perhaps fifty pounds underweight and still occasionally experienced double vision, but I was improving. I had escaped the