Castle RackrentCastle RackrentBy Maria Edgeworth1- Page 2-Castle RackrentINTRODUCTIONIThe story of the Edgeworth Family, if it were properly told, should beas long as the ARABIAN NIGHTS themselves; the thousand and onecheerful intelligent members of the circle, the amusing friends and...　

History Of The Mackenziesby Alexander MackenziePREFACETHE ORIGINAL EDITION of this work appeared in 1879, fifteen years ago. It was well received by the press, by the clan, and by all interested in the history of the Highlands. The best proof of this is the fact that the book has for several years been out of print, occasional second-hand copies of it coming into the market selling at a high premium on the original subscription price.Personally, however, I was never satisfied with it. It was my first clan history, and to say nothing of inevitable defects of style by a comparatively　

The Chaperonby Henry JamesCHAPTER I.An old lady, in a high drawing-room, had had her chair moved close tothe fire, where she sat knitting and warming her knees. She wasdressed in deep mourning; her face had a faded nobleness, tempered,however, by the somewhat illiberal compression assumed by her lips inobedience to something that was passing in her mind. She was farfrom the lamp, but though her eyes were fixed upon her active needlesshe was not looking at them. What she really saw was quite anothertrain of affairs. The room was spacious and dim; the thick London...　

Beasts, Men and Godsby Ferdinand OssendowskiEXPLANATORY NOTEWhen one of the leading publicists in America, Dr. Albert Shaw of the Review of Reviews, after reading the manuscript of Part I of this volume, characterized the author as "The Robinson Crusoe of the Twentieth Century," he touched the feature of the narrative which is at once most attractive and most dangerous; for the succession of trying and thrilling experiences recorded seems in places too highly colored to be real or, sometimes, even possible in this day and generation. I desire, therefore, to assure the reader at the outset th　

　　Acknowledgements　Because, in some instances, I met many of the real people in positions which, of necessity, are in this novel, I wish to state that none of the characters drawn here in any way resemble their real-life counterparts who, without exception, were extremely helpful to me.　I would like to thank:　Dr Gita Natarajan, Associate Medical Examiner, City of New York　Lieutenant Jim Doyle, mander, Village Police, West Hampton Beach　and, especially:　Dr Michael Baden, former Chief Medical Examiner, City of New York　Thanks to the numerous individuals who assisted me with translations, and to　

　A few years ago, while I was writing Flood Tide, I realized that Dirk Pitt needed some help on a particular assignment, and so I dreamed up Juan Cabrillo.　Cabrillo ran a ship called the Oregon, on the outside pletely nondescript, but on the inside packed with state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering equipment. It was a pletely private enterprise, available for any government agency that could afford it. It went where no warship could go, transported secret cargo without suspicion, plucked data out of the airit was the perfect plement to NUMA.　In fact, I had so much fun writing about the Orego　

　　His mind absorbed the scene before him, so quiet and calm and . . . normal. It was the life he had always wanted, a gathering of family and friends-he knew that they were just that, though the only one he recognized was his dear mother.　　This was the way it was supposed to be. The warmth and the love, the laughter and the quiet times. This was how he had always dreamed it would be, how he had always prayed it would be. The warm, inviting smiles. The pleasant conversation. The gentle pats on shoulders.　　But most of all there was the smile of his beloved mother, so happy now, no more a slave.　

TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-BOAT(Or The Rivals of Lake Carlopa)TOM SWIFT AND HISMOTOR-BOAT(Or The Rivals of Lake Carlopa)VICTOR APPLETON1- Page 2-TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-BOAT(Or The Rivals of Lake Carlopa)CHAPTER IA MOTOR-BOAT AUCTION"Where are you going, Tom?" asked Mr. Barton Swift of his son as theyoung man was slowly pushing his motor-cycle out of the yard toward the...　

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENUNDER THE WILLOW-TREEby Hans Christian AndersenTHE region round the little town of Kjoge is very bleak andcold. The town lies on the sea shore, which is always beautiful; buthere it might be more beautiful than it is, for on every side thefields are flat, and it is a long way to the forest. But whenpersons reside in a place and get used to it, they can always findsomething beautiful in it,- something for which they long, even in themost charming spot in the world which is not home. It must be owned...　

WHY GO TO COLLEGE?WHY GO TOCOLLEGE?ALICE FREEMAN PALMERFormerly President of Wellesley College1- Page 2-WHY GO TO COLLEGE?To a largely increasing number of young girls college doors areopening every year. Every year adds to the number of men who feel as afriend of mine, a successful lawyer in a great city, felt when in talking ofthe future of his four little children he said, "For the two boys it is not so...　

　　The caretaker stirred when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. There was barely any light left in the sky, and he had just made coffee and was reluctant to get up. But his curiosity got the better of him. Visitors to Alexandria seldom ventured into the cemetery at Ivy Hill; the historic town on the Potomac had a brace of other, more colorful attractions and amusements to offer the living. As for the locals, not many came out on a weekday; fewer still on a late afternoon when the April rains lashed the sky.　Peering through his gatehouse window, the caretaker saw a man get out of an ordin　

PART ONETheTurning WheelEnd of PART ONE1Tears and SmokeTiamak found the empty treelessness of the High Thrithing oppressive. Kwanitupul was strange, too, but he had been visiting that place since childhood, and its tumbledown buildings and ubiquitous waterways at least reminded him a little of his marshy home. Even Perdruin, where he had spent time in lonely exile, was so filled with close-leaning walls and narrow pathways, so riddled with shadowy hiding places and blanketed in the salt smell of the sea, that Tiamak had been able to live with his homesickness. But here on the grasslands he fe　

　CHAPTER ONE　　It was a very fast killing.　Touch the needle to the left arm. Press your thumb in between the left bicep and the tricep to pump up the vein. Ah, there it is. Clear the air from the syringe. Then in. Full. Slowly push the plunger all the way.　Done.　. Remove the needle and let him collapse back again beside the chess table where he had fallen moments before. His head cracked on the polished parquet floor, and the killer could not help wincing, even though a man with a splendid overdose of heroin needs no sympathy.　"You know, my dear," said the man with the needle. "Some people pay　

The Story of a Bad BoyThe Story of a Bad BoyBy Thomas Bailey Aldrich1- Page 2-The Story of a Bad BoyCHAPTER OneIn Which I Introduce MyselfThis is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a prettybad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy myself.Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that...　

　　John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolph Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X.　　Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why-at least to a degree-He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person. . . or, mare properly, as a Person.　　Here are some peop　

　　　　SUDDENLY THE child began to scream, piercing shrieks of terror that died down to shaking sobs, clutching at his mother so that his tiny ringers pinched her skin agonisingly through her flimsy summer dress.　　　　Veronica Jones grimaced in the deep green gloom of the reptile house, had to check herself from giving her five-year-old son one of her habitual cuffs across his head. She held him to her, closed her eyes momentarily, a human ostrich trying to hide her embarrassment from the ghostly white faces that turned in her direction. Trust the little sod to start playing up. You squandered a s