100

ONE-MINUTE
SPEED READING
DRILLS

(With Special Phrase-Formatted Text)


Read One Exercise in 60 Seconds…
and You’re Speed Reading!!








Copyright © 2016 David Butler
 Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
1: PRIDE AND PREJUDICE by Jane Austen
2: ANNE OF GREEN GABLES by Lucy Maud Montgomery
3: DRACULA by Bram Stoker
4: A TALE OF TWO CITIES by Charles Dickens
5: EMMA by Jane Austen
6: DR. JECKYLL AND MR. HYDE by Robert Louis Stevenson
7: RICHARD WAGNER by John F. Runciman
8: THE LIFE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE by Charles Duke Yong
9: GROW RICH WHILE YOU SLEEP by Ben Sweetland
10: HOW TO USE YOUR MIND by Harry D. Kitson, PH.D.
11: THE EVE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION by Edward J. Lowell
12: THINK AND GROW RICH by Napoleon Hill
13: SUCCESS THRU PUBLIC SPEAKING by Joseph T. Karcher
14: THE ART OF THOUGHT READING by Joseph Dunninger
15: ECONOMICS IN ONE LESSON by Henry Hazlitt
16: A JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH by Jules Verne
17: HISTORY OF WORLD WAR I by Albert E. Mckinley, Ph.D.
18: AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS by Jules Verne
19: HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain
20: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
21: A YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY Translated by Eden and Cedar Paul
22: FOUR GREAT AMERICANS by James Baldwin, Ph.D.
23: THE ADVENTURES OF PINOCCHIO by C. Collodi
24: DUBLINERS by James Joyce
25: WHAT IS COMING AFTER WWI? by H.G. Wells
26: OLD GREEK STORIES by James Baldwin
27: THE EMPIRE OF RUSSIA by John S. C. Abbott
28: BLACK BEAUTY by Anna Sewell
29: A CHRISTMAS CAROL by Charles Dickens
30: STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN by Sara Cone Bryant
31: THE ALAMO AND GOLIAD by Joseph A. Altsheler
32: CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS by Elbridge S Brooks
33: THE ONTARIO READERS by unknown authors
34: LIFE OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN by William M. Thayer
35: A LITTLE PRINCESS by Frances Hodgson Burnett
36: THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER by Mark Twain
37: BEAUTY AND THE BEAST by Marie Le Prince de Beaumont
38: PUBLIC SPEAKING PRINCIPLES by Irvah Lester Winter
39: CINDERELLA by Charles Perrault
40: THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW by Washington Irving
41: THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SCHOOL by Laura Lee Hope
42: THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SNOW LODGE by Laura Lee Hope
43: THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY by Laura Lee Hope
44: THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN WASHINGTON by Laura Lee Hope
45: THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON A HOUSEBOAT by Laura Lee Hope
46: THE LAND THAT TIME FORGOT by Edgar Rice Burroughs
47: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BUFFALO BILL by Colonel W. F. Cody
48: A CONSICE HISTORY OF THE U.S. by Barnes & Co.
49: THE PEOPLE THAT TIME FORGOT by Edgar Rice Burroughs
50: THE THIEF by Fyodor Dostoevsky
51: HOW TO DO IT by Edward Everett Hale
52: CLEOPATRA by Jacob Abbott
53: THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER by Mark Twain
54: KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS by Sir James Knowles
55: THE METAMORPHOSIS by Franz Kafka
56: SONS AND LOVERS by D. H. Lawrence
57: THE GUNS OF BULL RUN by Joseph A. Altsheler
58: DAISY MILLER by Henry James
59: SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
60: THE STORY OF ELECTRICITY by John Munro
61: A ROOM WITH A VIEW by E. M. Forster
62: HERO TALES OF AMERICAN HISTORY by Henry Cabot Lodge
63: THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON told by Mary Godolphin
64: READING MADE EASY by John L. Huelshof
65: THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO by Carl Marx & Friedrich Engels
66: A CONNECTICUT YANKEE by Mark Twain
67: COMMON SENSE by Thomas Paine
68: HOW TO ACT by Robert Graham Paris
69: EINSTEIN’S THEORY OF RELATIVITY by Prof. H.A. Lorentz
70: HISTORY OF JULIUS CAESAR by Jacob Abbott
71: A CASE OF IDENTITY by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
72: AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CHARLES DARWIN
73: A GHOST STORY by Mark Twain
74: A KINDERGARTEN STORY BOOK by Jane L. Hoxie
75: THE LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN by Henry Ketcham
76: STORIES OF INVENTORS by Russell Doubleday
77: AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANDREW CARNEGIE
78: MARK TWAIN by Archibald Henderson
79: IN THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR by Samuel E. Lowe
80: HOW TO TELL A STORY by Mark Twain
81: THE COMPLETE BOOK OF CATS by Adie Suehsdorf
82: ANCIENT MAN by Hendrik Willem Van Loon
83: THE HISTORY OF THE TELEPHONE by Herbert N. Casson
84: ROMEO AND JULIET (Simplified) by Charles and Mary Lamb
85: HENRY VIII AND HIS COURT by unknown author
86: THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL by Joseph A. Altsheler
87: SPEECH POWER by Adelbert Brown
88: TALKS ON TALKING by Grenville Kleiser
89: AN IDEAL FAMILY by Katherine Mansfield
90: A CHARMED LIFE by Richard Harding Davis
91: CAVE BOY OF THE AGE OF STONE by Margaret A. Mcintyre
92: TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES by Charlotte M. Yonge
93: THE $30,000 BEQUEST by Mark Twain
94: HOW TO SHOW YOUR OWN DOG by Virginia Tuck Nichols
95: STORY HOUR READERS by Ida Coe, Pd.M.
96: POLITICAL IDEALS by Bertrand Russell
97: THE SPECKLED BAND by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
98: DRACULA’S GUEST by Bram Stoker
99: A SCHOOL STORY by M. R. James
100: EVE’S DIARY by Mark Twain
Additional Resources
 INTRODUCTION
“Speed reading” is 600 words per minute.
That’s 10 words per second.
Or it can be… just two 5-word phrases per second.
It’s only reading two phrases during the “tick-tock” of a clock.
 Speed Reading
600 wpm is the threshold of real speed reading. That’s double the average
reading speed of college students and triple the overall adult speed.
Of every 1,000 English speaking adults, only ONE is a speed reader.

Here’s the challenge: Read 600 words in 60 seconds. When you do, you’ll be
speed reading. Simple as that. With excerpts exactly 600 words long, you’ll
have an easy way to practice, measure and achieve this goal.
In only 60 seconds a day you could double or triple your reading speed by
training yourself to see whole phrases and meaningful ideas at each glance.
There are 100 reading excerpts and each excerpt is 600 “standard” words
long. The average English word length is 4½ characters. 600 standard words
plus the 599 spaces, comes to 3299 total characters.
Therefore, every excerpt in this book ends after the first word that reaches
3299 characters (including spaces). This rather abrupt ending to the exercises
is to ensure that each excerpt is precisely 600 standard word-lengths, so that
you’ll have an easy-to-see and obvious goal to strive for.
Granted, accomplishing this goal may not be extremely easy at first. (If it IS
easy for you, then maybe you’ve wasted your money on this book.) But when
you complete an exercise in one minute, you’ll be speed reading, and you’ll
see exactly what real speed reading feels like.
You CAN do this, but of course it does take practice. It also takes a new
mental approach to reading. It takes moving away from the words and sounds,
and focusing more attention on ideas and thoughts, which we’ll get into a
little in the next section on phrase-reading.
There are two speed approaches you can take. You can either see how fast
you can read an excerpt, or see how much you can understand when you push
yourself to complete an excerpt in 60 seconds. Using either or both of these
methods will develop the habits and mindsets of faster reading.
Don’t think you can’t be the one in a thousand. Many people will not even try,
but you can learn to speed read, and these practice excerpts give you a
straight-forward way to measure and achieve this goal.
The purpose here is to give you a clear and simple target to aim for; a speed
reading bullseye. Just select an excerpt, start your timer, and go!
You can read the excerpts, in any order. You can also repeat any excerpts. It
doesn’t matter if you’ve previously read them and are familiar with the
material, because all speed practice adds to your reading habits. You want to
practice what 600 wpm feels like. You want to create the habit in your mind
of reading and understanding text at an accelerated speed.
As you speed read these short excerpts, your mind will automatically adjust
and alter the way it perceives text. It will start to discover new ways to focus
better and store and assimilate information faster.
It’s not that your mind couldn’t do this before, it was just never asked to.
 Phrase-Reading
Phrases are where the meaning is. Words are way too vague on their own.
And sentences are usually too long to read in a single glance.
But phrases, meaningful word-groups, are compact and understandable pieces
of information that can be understood as a single idea, all at once, just as if
they were one single compound word.
If this is new to you, you’re probably wondering how you can focus on
meaningful phrases — how can you know what groups of words to read
together to make up these meaningful phrases.
Well, if you haven’t read Speed Reading with the Right Brain, or Easy Speed
Reading, let me give you the short version of this technique.
Basically, you use visualizing to encourage your mind to focus on the ideas
instead of words. When you attempt to visualize the ideas you’re reading,
your subconscious mind automatically gravitates to meaningful phrases
because that’s where the ideas are.
So to see the text in meaningful phrases, try to use your imagination as much
as possible while you read, and you’ll find that your eyes will focus on the
phrases for you.
To guide you while learning to read phrases, all of the text in the practice
excerpts is phrase-highlighted. This is done by alternating each phrase
between black and gray text to assist you in focusing on the whole phrases.
There’s no difference between black phrases or gray phrases — the black and
gray text is just a method to the phrases stand out as separate entities.
Note that these word-groups are not merely randomly fixed word lengths. For
example, they’re not just a set number of every four, five or six words.
Instead, the words are grouped together into actual meaningful phrases; that is
phrases that you can quickly read and imagine as complete ideas.
This is an example of phrase-highlighted text. Each meaningful phrase is easy
to see as a separate block of text so you can quickly focus on whole ideas at a
time rather than simply reading a string of words. Practice reading this text as
fast as you can while visualizing and imagining what you read and watch as
your reading turns into a virtual movie in your head.
 1: PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
by Jane Austen

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a

good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first
entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the
surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of someone or
other of their daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me
all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a
young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on
Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with
it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession
before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end
of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five
thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
“How so? How can it affect them?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You
must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”
“Is that his design in settling here?”
“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall
in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he
comes.”
“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them
by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome
as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the party.”
“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not
pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up
daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”
“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
the neighborhood.”
“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be
for one of them. Sir-William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on
that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you
must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not.”
“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to
see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent
to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a
good word for my little Lizzy.”
“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others;
and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humored
as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference.”
“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are all
silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness
than her…
 2: ANNE OF GREEN GABLES
by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Surprised

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into
a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a
brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it
was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through
those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached
Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a
brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for
decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting
at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks
and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she
would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.
There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to
their neighbor’s business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel
Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own
concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable
housewife; her work was always done and well done; she “ran” the Sewing
Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the
Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs.
Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting
“cotton warp” quilts−she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea
housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices−and keeping a sharp eye on
the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond.
Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf
of St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or
into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs.
Rachel’s all-seeing eye.
She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at
the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in
a bridal flush of pinky- white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees.
Thomas Lynde−a meek little man whom Avonlea people called “Rachel
Lynde’s husband”−was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the
barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red
brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought
because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William
J. Blair’s store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next
afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never
been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life.
And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a
busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore
a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was
going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which
betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was
Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?
Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and
that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions.
But…
 3: DRACULA
by Bram Stoker

Jonathan Harker’s Journal

3 May. Bistritz.−Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna
early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.
Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from
the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far
from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct
time as possible.
The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the
East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of
noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I
stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a
chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty.
(Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called
“paprika hendl,” and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it
anywhere along the Carpathians.
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don’t know how
I should be able to get on without it.
Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library
regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the
country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman
of that country.
I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on
the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the
midst of the Carpathian Mountains; one of the wildest and least known
portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the
Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with
our own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named
by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my
notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with
Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons
in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of
the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am
going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns.
This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh
century they found the Huns settled in it.
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the
horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of
imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must
ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all
sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window,
which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika,
for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards
morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I
guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which
they said was…
 4: A TALE OF TWO CITIES
by Charles Dickens

The Period
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it
was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of
incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was
the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us,
we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all
going direct the other way−in short, the period was so far like the present
period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for
good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair
face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to
the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general
were settled for ever.
It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favored period, as at
this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed
birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the
sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the
swallowing up of London-and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had
been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the
spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality)
rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately
come to the English Crown and-People, from a congress of British subjects in
America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human
race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the
Cock-lane brood.
France, less favored on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the
shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper
money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she
entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a
youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body
burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honor to a
dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some
fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it,
terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some
tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the
weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about
by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set
apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer,
though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they
went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any
suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous…
 5: EMMA
by Jane Austen

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and
happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence;
and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress
or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent
father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s marriage, been mistress of his
house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to
have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had
been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short
of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s family, less as a
governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of
Emma. Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss
Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her
temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of
authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend
and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked;
highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather
too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself;
these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments.
The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any
means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came−a gentle sorrow−but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable
consciousness−Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first
brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma
first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the
bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no
prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to
sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she
had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a
man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant
manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-
denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match;
but it was a black morning’s work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be
felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness−the kindness, the
affection of sixteen years−how she had taught and how she had played with
her from five years old−how she had devoted all her powers to attach and
amuse her in health−and how nursed her through the various illnesses of
childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the
last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon
followed Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a
dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such as
few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the
ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in
herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of…
 6: DR. JECKYLL AND MR. HYDE
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never
lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in
sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly
meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human
beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his
talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face,
but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself;
drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he
enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he
had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with
envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any
extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove.
“I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to
the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be
the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of
down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his
chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanor.
No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the
best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of
good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle
ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way.
His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the
longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no
aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, the bond that united him to Mr.
Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was
a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what
subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered
them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and
would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two
men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel
of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted
the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.
It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in
a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it
drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The inhabitants were all doing well,
it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the
surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that
thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even
on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty
of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighborhood, like a
fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses,
and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the
eye of the passenger.
Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken
by the entry of a court; and just at that point…
 7: RICHARD WAGNER
by John F. Runciman

As the springtide of 1813 was melting into early summer the poet and
musician of spring days and summer nights was born at the house of the Red
and White Lion on the Bruehl in old Leipzig. The precise date was May 22;
and owing to many causes the 16th of August came round before, at the
church of St. Thomas, the child was christened Wilhelm Richard Wagner. The
events and circumstances of the period have furnished the imaginative with
many striking portents with regard to the future mighty composer; and, to do
the prophets full justice, after the event−long after the event−they have widely
opened their mouths and uttered prophecies. Thus the name of the house,
describing a beast such as never was on sea or land, distinctly warned a
drowsy people that the monstrous dragon of Siegfried was about to take the
road leading from Nowhere to Bayreuth. The spring foretold the songs in
Tannhaeuser and the Valkyrie; the summer, the nights in King Mark’s Cornish
castle-garden and amongst the fragrant lime-trees in the streets of ancient
Nuremberg; the horrors of the war raging at the very gates of Leipzig and
Napoleon’s flight, the advent of the preacher who was to earn a long exile by
advising the Saxon soldiers not to shoot their brethren. Events provided
material for these and many another score of prognostications: only,
fortunately, no one read events rightly at the time, and something fresh was
left for the biographers to expend their ingenuity upon.
Richard Wagner came of a German lower middle-class stock. There is not
amongst his ancestry a single man distinguished in letters or any art. His
uncle Adolph, of whom some Bayreuth gentlemen make much, would not be
remembered had he not been Wagner’s uncle. Only by patient research has it
been discovered that one or more of his forebears could so much as play the
organ. His father was an amateur theatrical enthusiast, and he too would have
been utterly forgotten had he not been Wagner’s father. His stepfather−though
this seems hardly to the point−was an actor and portrait-painter; and his one
claim to remembrance is that he was Wagner’s stepfather. So, however
scientifically minded we may be, however strongly disposed to account for
the sudden appearance of a stupendous genius by the cheap and easy method
of pointing to some distinguished ancestor and talking pompously of the laws
of heredity, in Wagner’s case we are baffled and beaten. He came like a
thunderbolt out of a blue sky. We must be content with the fact that he came.
His father and grandfather were state or municipal officials both; and bearing
in mind Wagner’s frank detestation of officialdom, the scientist can scarcely
draw much comfort from that.
The grandfather, Gottlob Friedrich Wagner, was born in 1736, only a few
years later than Haydn. In 1769 he married the daughter of a charity-school
master or caretaker; and in 1770, the year of Beethoven’s birth, his first child,
christened Carl Friedrich Wilhelm, was born. Four years later Adolph arrived.
Gottlob was a douanier, an exciseman, at the Rannstadt gate of Leipzig, and
passed his days, I dare say, as honestly as an exciseman can, in examining
incoming travelers to see that they did not bring with them so much as an egg
that had not paid duty. He died in 1795. Meantime, Carl Friedrich…
 8: THE LIFE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
by Charles Duke Yong

The most striking event in the annals of modern Europe is unquestionably the
French Revolution of 1789−a Revolution which, in one sense, may be said to
be still in progress, but which, in a more limited view, may be regarded as
having been, consummated by the deposition and murder of the sovereign of
the country. It is equally undeniable that, during its first period, the person
who most attracts and rivets attention is the queen. One of the most brilliant
of modern French writers has recently remarked that, in spite of the number
of years which have elapsed since the grave closed over the sorrows of Marie
Antoinette, and of the almost unbroken series of exciting events which have
marked the annals of France in the interval, the interest excited by her story is
as fresh and engrossing as ever; that such as Hecuba and Andromache were to
the ancients, objects never named to inattentive ears, never contemplated
without lively sympathy, such still is their hapless queen to all honest and
intelligent Frenchmen. It may even be said that that interest has increased of
late years. The respectful and remorseful pity which her fate could not fail to
awaken has been quickened by the publication of her correspondence with her
family and intimate friends, which has laid bare, without disguise, all her
inmost thoughts and feelings, her errors as well as her good deeds, her
weaknesses equally with her virtues. Few, indeed, even of those whom the
world regards with its highest favor and esteem, could endure such an ordeal
without some diminution of their fame. Yet it is but recording the general
verdict of all whose judgment is of value, to affirm that Marie Antoinette has
triumphantly surmounted it; and that the result of a scrutiny as minute and
severe as any to which a human being has ever been subjected, has been
greatly to raise her reputation.
Not that she was one of those paragons whom painters of model heroines
have delighted to imagine to themselves; one who from childhood gave
manifest indications of excellence and greatness, and whose whole life was
but a steady progressive development of its early promise. She was rather one
in whom adversity brought forth great qualities, her possession of which, had
her life been one of that unbroken sunshine which is regarded by many as the
natural and inseparable attendant of royalty, might never have been even
suspected. We meet with her first, at an age scarcely advanced beyond
childhood, transported from her school-room to a foreign court, as wife to the
heir of one of the noblest kingdoms of Europe. And in that situation we see
her for a while a light-hearted, merry girl, annoyed rather than elated by her
new magnificence; thoughtless, if not frivolous, in her pursuits; fond of dress;
eager in her appetite for amusement, tempered only by an innate purity of
feeling which never deserted her; the brightest features of her character being
apparently a frank affability, and a genuine and active kindness and humanity
which were displayed to all classes and on all occasions. We see her presently
as queen, hardly yet arrived at womanhood, little changed in disposition or in
outward demeanor, though profiting to the utmost by the opportunities which
her increased power afforded her of proving the genuine tenderness…
 9: GROW RICH WHILE YOU SLEEP
by Ben Sweetland

95% of all human problems stem from a negative mind. This figure includes
such traits as timidity, domestic discord, business failure, bad memory,
tenseness, unhappiness, worry, etc.
You can do something about it… while you sleep!
You are a mind with a body attached, not a body with a mind attached!
Realize this and you are on your way to self-mastery. This is the new
approach to the Conscious Mind through the other level that never sleeps, the
Creative Mind. What you will discover is priceless!
This book shows how to use the deepest thinking part of you, while you sleep,
to get whatever you want out of life… money, personal influence, love,
respect and admiration.
At will, you can direct your Creative Mind to assist you in solving
problems… making the right decisions… in creating ways and means of great
achievement… overnight! With this technique you can sleep on it and awake
in the morning with answers so clear-cut you will be amazed!
You will discover:
—6 exercises that develop your latent creative powers into a mental
powerhouse.
—5 ways to make your Creative Mind work for you.
—a formula for building a success consciousness that will lead you to success
in any direction… and double your income.
—how to develop your powers of concentration.
—how to accentuate the positive… and gain a magnetic personality.
—how to go on a mental diet… to gain radiant mental and physical health…
and feel younger than your years, even at 70.
By unblocking the mind-line this method automatically improves the
memory, strengthens other mental powers, casting out self-doubt and self-
defeat. It builds optimism, confidence, courage, and brings out latent talents,
shows that you can grow rich… in all things… material as well as spiritual…
while you sleep.
How This Book Helps You Grow Rich
Prepare yourself for a wonderful experience. Whatever you want out of life,
this book will show you the way to make it come to you. Be it money,
influence, love, respect, or admiration—be it any or all of these—it will be
yours in abounding measure.
This way to get rich is universal. It has brought riches to men who work at all
kinds of occupations in many parts of the world. It does not depend on your
education, your background or your luck.
It depends on the most essential, deepest-thinking part of you.
Just look around and you’ll see how few men really know what they want or
where they’re going. Having no goal in mind, they can’t even discern the
difference between what is good for them and what is bad.
If you too are that way—don’t worry. This book is going to change you. Start
by remembering that you are better than you consciously think you are. In
fact, if you already know how you would like to spend a lot of money, you are
far ahead of most men!
Before you finish this book, you are going to know once and for all:
How to recognize your real goals in life—no matter what anyone else tries to
tell you:
How to get acquainted with your real self—your true abilities, your vast fund
of hidden talent.
How to fill yourself with such genuine, deep-down confidence, zest and good-
will that other people will be pleased to help you get what you want.
How to find and hold the full, glorious picture of your own success and build
toward that picture with every word and deed.
As your work multiplies in worth, remember…
 10: HOW TO USE YOUR MIND
by Harry D. Kitson, PH.D.

In entering upon a college course you are taking a step that may completely
revolutionize your life. You are facing new situations vastly different from
any you have previously met. They are also of great variety, such as finding a
place to eat and sleep, regulating your own finances, inaugurating a new
social life, forming new friendships, and developing in body and mind. The
problems connected with mental development will engage your chief
attention. You are now going to use your mind more actively than ever before
and should survey some of the intellectual difficulties before plunging into the
fight.
Perhaps the first difficulty you will encounter is the substitution of the lecture
for the class recitation to which you were accustomed in high school. This
substitution requires that you develop a new technique of learning, for the
mental processes involved in an oral recitation are different from those used
in listening to a lecture. The lecture system implies that the lecturer has a fund
of knowledge about a certain field and has organized this knowledge in a
form that is not duplicated in the literature of the subject. The manner of
presentation, then, is unique and is the only means of securing the knowledge
in just that form. As soon as the words have left the mouth of the lecturer they
cease to be accessible to you. Such conditions require a unique mental attitude
and unique mental habits. You will be obliged, in the first place, to maintain
sustained attention over long periods of time. The situation is not like that in
reading, in which a temporary lapse of attention may be remedied by turning
back and rereading. In listening to a lecture, you are obliged to catch the
words “on the fly.” Accordingly, you must develop new habits of paying
attention. You will also need to develop a new technique for memorizing,
especially for memorizing things heard. As a partial aid in this, and also for
purposes of organizing material received in lectures, you will need to develop
ability to take notes. This is a process with which you have heretofore had
little to do. It is a most important phase of college life, however, and will
repay earnest study.
Another characteristic of college study is the vast amount of reading required.
Instead of using a single text-book for each course, you may use several. They
may cover great historical periods and represent the ideas of many men. In
view of the amount of reading assigned, you will also be obliged to learn to
read faster. No longer will you have time to dawdle sleepily through the pages
of easy texts; you will have to cover perhaps fifty or a hundred pages of
knotty reading every day. Accordingly, you must learn to handle books
expeditiously and to comprehend quickly. In fact, economy must be your
watchword throughout. A German lesson in high school may cover thirty or
forty lines a day, requiring an hour’s preparation. A German assignment in
college, however, may cover four or five or a dozen pages, requiring hard
work for two or three hours.
You should be warned also that college demands not only a greater quantity
but also a higher quality of work. When you were a high school student the
world expected only a high school student’s accomplishments of you. Now
you are a college student, however, and your…
 11: THE EVE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
by Edward J. Lowell

When Louis XVI. came to the throne in the year 1774, he inherited a power
nearly absolute in theory over all the temporal affairs of his kingdom. In
certain parts of the country the old assemblies or Provincial Estates still met at
fixed times, but their functions were very closely limited. The Parliaments, or
high courts of justice, which had claimed the right to impose some check on
legislation, had been browbeaten by Louis XIV., and the principal one, that of
Paris, had been dissolved by his successor. The young king appeared,
therefore, to be left face to face with a nation over which he was to exercise
direct and despotic power. It was a recognized maxim that the royal was law.
Moreover, for more than two centuries, the tendency of continental
governments had been toward absolutism. Among the great desires of men in
those ages had been organization and strong government. A despotism was
considered more favorable to these things than an aristocracy. Democracy
existed as yet only in the dreams of philosophers, the history of antiquity, and
the example of a few inconsiderable countries, like the Swiss cantons. It was
soon to be brought into greater prominence by the American Revolution. As
yet, however, the French nation looked hopefully to the king for government,
and for such measures of reform as were deemed necessary. A king of France
who had reigned justly and strongly would have received the moral support of
the most respectable part of his subjects. These longed for a fair distribution
of public burdens and for freedom from unnecessary restraint, rather than for
a share in the government. The admiration for the English constitution, which
was commonly expressed, was as yet rather theoretic than practical, and was
not of a nature to detract from the loyalty undoubtedly felt for the French
crown.
Every monarch, however despotic in theory, is in fact surrounded by many
barriers which it takes a strong man to overleap. And so it was with the king
of France. Although he was the fountain of justice, his judicial powers were
exercised through magistrates many of whom had bought their places, and
could therefore not be dispossessed without measures that were felt to be
unjust and almost revolutionary. The breaking up of the Parliament of Paris,
in the latter years of the preceding reign, had thrown the whole body of judges
and lawyers into a state of discontent bordering on revolt. The new court of
justice which had superseded the old one, the Parlement Maupeou as it was
called, after the name of the chancellor who had advised its formation, was
neither liked nor respected. It was one of the first acts of the government of
Louis XVI. to restore the ancient Parliament of Paris, whose rights over
legislation will be considered later, but which exercised at least a certain
moral restraint on the royal authority.
But it was in the administrative part of the government, where the king
seemed most free, that he was in fact most hampered. A vast system of public
offices had been gradually formed, with regulations, traditions, and a
professional spirit. This it was which had displaced the old feudal order,
substituting centralization for vigorous local life.
The king’s councils, which had become the central governing power of the
state, were five in…
 12: THINK AND GROW RICH
by Napoleon Hill

Teaching, for the first time, the famous Andrew Carnegie formula for money-
making, based upon the THIRTEEN PROVEN STEPS TO RICHES.
Organized through 25 years of research, in collaboration with more than 500
distinguished men of great wealth, who proved by their own achievements
that this philosophy is practical.
WHAT DO YOU WANT MOST?
Is It Money, Fame, Power, Contentment, Personality, Peace of Mind,
Happiness?
The Thirteen Steps to Riches described in this book offer the shortest
dependable philosophy of individual achievement ever presented for the
benefit of the man or woman who is searching for a definite goal in life.
Before beginning the book, you will profit greatly if you recognize the fact
that the book was not written to entertain. You cannot digest the contents
properly in a week or a month.
After reading the book thoroughly, Dr. Miller Reese Hutchison, nationally
known Consulting Engineer and long-time associate of Thomas A. Edison,
said−
“This is not a novel. It is a textbook on individual achievement that came
directly from the experiences of hundreds of America’s most successful men.
It should be studied, digested, and meditated upon. No more than one chapter
should be read in a single night. The reader should underline the sentences
which impress him most. Later, he should go back to these marked lines and
read them again. A real student will not merely read this book, he will absorb
its contents and make them his own. This book should be adopted by all high
schools and no boy or girl should be permitted to graduate without having
satisfactorily passed an examination on it. This philosophy will not take the
place of the subjects taught in schools, but it will enable one to organize and
apply the knowledge acquired, and convert it into useful service and adequate
compensation without waste of time.”
Dr. John R. Turner, Dean of the College of the City of New York, after having
read the book, said−
“The very best example of the soundness of this philosophy is your own son,
Blair, whose dramatic story you have outlined in the chapter on Desire.”
Dr. Turner had reference to the author’s son, who, born without normal
hearing capacity, not only avoided becoming a deaf mute, but actually
converted his handicap into a priceless asset by applying the philosophy here
described. After reading the story you will realize that you are about to come
into possession of a philosophy which can be transmuted into material wealth,
or serve as readily to bring you peace of mind, understanding, spiritual
harmony, and in some instances, as in the case of the author’s son, it can help
you master physical affliction.
The author discovered, through personally analyzing hundreds of successful
men, that all of them followed the habit of exchanging ideas, through what is
commonly called conferences. When they had problems to be solved they sat
down together and talked freely until they discovered, from their joint
contribution of ideas, a plan that would serve their purpose.
You, who read this book, will get most out of it by putting into practice the
Master Mind principle described in the book. This you can do (as others are
doing so successfully) by forming a study club, consisting of any desired
number of people who are friendly and harmonious. The club should have…
 13: SUCCESS THRU PUBLIC SPEAKING
by Joseph T. Karcher

HOW IMPORTANT IS PUBLIC SPEAKING?

Many people seem to have the idea that the ability to speak in public is a non-
essential or even a luxury. They go through life telling themselves that “they
don’t need it”. Some will say: “It’s alright for him—but not for me.” Others
will say: “In his occupation or vocation it’s important—but in mine it doesn’t
make any difference.” Still others will be heard to say: “I’ll make out just as
good without public speaking.” Nothing could be further from the truth.
Almost everyone needs to know at least the rudiments of the art. It is difficult
to conceive of any line where this ability will not help you achieve your
ambitions. It is fairly safe to say that given any two persons with relatively
equal talents—and other factors being equal, the one with the ability to make
even an average speech in public will go farther in life, accomplish more and
feel better satisfied with himself than the one who does not have this ability.
MAY SPEW, THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MEDIOCRITY AND
SUPERIORITY
Conversely, no matter how talented you may be, nor how hard you may work
at your task in life, if you cannot express yourself at least simply and
coherently in public, the chances are ten to one that you will never rise above
mediocrity in “your chosen field”. You are destined to see others less talented
than you who do not work anywhere near as hard as you do, rise to positions
of prominence and income beyond your own. Now, if these statements are
true, and from many years of experience and observation I can assure you that
they are, surely you must concede that here is a neglected talent which it
would pay you to develop. In fact, there are few fields of human endeavor
which will reward you as handsomely in prestige, in power, in satisfaction,
yes, and in income than the ability to speak.
A “MUST” FOR CLERGYMEN, LAWYERS, TEACHERS AND
POLITICIANS
There was a time when it was generally thought that clergymen, lawyers,
teachers and politicians were about the only ones who were expected or
required to speak in public. Hence these were the only professions or callings
in which this particular ability was important. Gradually this provincial idea is
giving way to a more enlightened conception of this particular aptitude.
Speaking is still as important as ever for the clergyman. He is selling
something intangible. He carries on constantly the never ending battle to win
the hearts and minds of men to the particular dogmas or convictions of his
creed. It is true that most of the churches today also have intensive programs
always in progress in the fields of education, hospitalization, care for the aged
and orphaned to win converts to their cause. But these alone would never
accomplish the result. The major appeal still lies in the spoken word as it has
since the dawn of history.
As for lawyers, can you conceive of a successful advocate who was not also
an eloquent speaker? But it is not only the trial attorney who must acquire
facility in the spoken word. The appellate lawyer must be able to argue his
appeals lucidly, succinctly, persuasively before the upper tribunals. Even the
so-called corporation lawyers and office practitioners must have a fluency of
expression to be able to properly perform their work in these and other
branches of the law…
 14: THE ART OF THOUGHT READING
by Joseph Dunninger

THE CURTAIN RISES

The orchestra plays a stirring overture…
The house lights go down and the footlights up…
A few strains of a waltz…
And, the curtains part and open…
THE SHOW IS ON
The mentalist demonstrates his control over your mind and what he decides to
do.
Mysterious? Rather! Sensational? Very! Amazing? Definitely! But you, too,
can learn to read the minds of others.
You, too, can receive the projected thoughts from the mind of another…
present modern miracles of the mind… astound by reading sealed messages,
see through walls of steel… read playing cards, selected at random from a
new sealed pack… and many other feats that are so unbelievable that you
doubt your own senses.
You, too, can experience the thrill at each performance of acknowledging the
hearty and enthusiastic applause of an audience.
There is nothing mysterious… there is nothing supernatural, in being a
Reader of Thoughts.
Interested? Of course you are… otherwise you wouldn’t have purchased this
book.
So on with the show… let us get the inner circle of the initiated… learn the
secrets of what makes the Thought Reader so different from other people. But
is he? Not at all. He is only a human being who has studied and developed
talents in receiving and transmitting thoughts. Confidentially, it is a trade…
just like that of a painter, physician, accountant or politician. He must possess
the glib tongue of the politician, and the… er… well, he is somewhat of a
politician in more ways than one.
So on with the show… and later let us visit backstage, behind the scenes, and
learn what we can of the many tests and demonstrations we have witnessed
from a comfortable seat… demonstrations that in some misguided minds
cause the ugly serpent of skepticism to rear its hooded head.
You Too Can Read a Thought
How to Become a Thought Reader
Can I become a thought reader?
That is the question sure to crop up whenever mind reading, thought reading
or telepathic experiments are discussed.
Of course you can… providing you are willing to study and devote time and
patience in experimenting.
Yes, you too can learn to read thoughts.
You wouldn’t expect a person to seat himself at a piano and immediately,
without years of study and practice, expertly play the classics, would you? Of
course not. The same applies to thought reading. To read the projected
thoughts from the mind of another, one must thoroughly understand the whys
and wherefores of this study. Turn a deaf ear to the self-appointed critics who
are jealous of the success of others.
Almost anyone, born with the qualities necessary to learn, can master the
methods of communicating his or her thoughts to someone else. One must
take into consideration the differences between the mental temperament of
most people, as it depends chiefly upon the individual adaptability of the
persons who are really serious in their desire to study thought reading.
Thought reading is the ability of one person to receive, interpret and analyze
the projected thoughts of another.
One taking up this study must be ready to bind themselves to a hard
taskmaster. Put forth every effort sincerely to master, from the written word
and experience as you go along, the various methods and rules, and
understand fully the natural laws involved in this art. There is no simple
formula to follow, no short…
 15: ECONOMICS IN ONE LESSON
by Henry Hazlitt

This book is an analysis of economic fallacies that are at last so prevalent that
they have almost become a new orthodoxy. The one thing that has prevented
this has been their own self-contradictions, which have scattered those who
accept the same premises into a hundred different “schools,” for the simple
reason that it is impossible in matters touching practical life to be consistently
wrong. But the difference between one new school and another is merely that
one group wakes up earlier than another to the absurdities to which its false
premises are driving it, and becomes at that moment inconsistent by either
unwittingly abandoning its false premises or accepting conclusions from them
less disturbing or fantastic than those that logic would demand.
There is not a major government in the world at this moment, however, whose
economic policies are not influenced if they are not almost wholly determined
by acceptance of some of these fallacies. Perhaps the shortest and surest way
to an understanding of economics is through a dissection of such errors, and
particularly of the central error from which they stem. That is the assumption
of this volume and of its somewhat ambitious and belligerent title.
The volume is therefore primarily one of exposition. It makes no claim to
originality with regard to any of the chief ideas that it expounds. Rather its
effort is to show that many of the ideas which now pass for brilliant
innovations and advances are in fact mere revivals of ancient errors, and a
further proof of the dictum that those who are ignorant of the past are
condemned to repeat it.
The present essay itself is, I suppose, unblushingly “classical”, “traditional”,
and “orthodox”: at least these are the epithets with which those whose
sophisms are here subjected to analysis will no doubt attempt to dismiss it.
But the student whose aim is to attain as much truth as possible will not be
frightened by such adjectives. He will not be forever seeking a revolution, a
“fresh start,” in economic thought. His mind will, of course, he as receptive to
new ideas as to old ones; but he will be content to put aside merely restless or
exhibitionistic straining for novelty and originality. As Morris R. Cohen has
remarked: “The notion that we can dismiss the views of all previous thinkers
surely leaves no basis for the hope that our own work will prove of any value
to others.” Because this is a work of exposition I have availed myself freely
and without detailed acknowledgment (except for rare footnotes and
quotations) of the ideas of others. This is inevitable when one writes in a field
in which many of the world’s finest minds have labored. But my indebtedness
to at least three writers is of so specific a nature that I cannot allow it to pass
unmentioned. My greatest debt, with respect to the kind of expository
framework on which the present argument is hung, is to Frédéric Bastiat’s
essay Cequ’on voit et ce qu’on ne voit pas, now nearly a century old. The
present work may, in fact, be regarded as a modernization, extension and
generalization of the approach found in Bastiat’s pamphlet. My second debt is
to Philip Wicksteed: in particular the chapters on wages and the final
summary chapter owe much to his Common Sense of Political Economy. My
third debt is…
 16: A JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE
EARTH
by Jules Verne

On the 24th of May, 1863, my uncle, Professor Liedenbrock, rushed into his
little house, No. 19 Konigstrasse, one of the oldest streets in the oldest portion
of the city of Hamburg.
Martha must have concluded that she was very much behindhand, for the
dinner had only just been put into the oven.
“Well, now,” said I to myself, “if that most impatient of men is hungry, what a
disturbance he will make!”
“M. Liedenbrock so soon!” cried poor Martha in great alarm, half opening the
dining-room door.
“Yes, Martha; but very likely the dinner is not half cooked, for it is not two
yet. Saint Michael’s clock has only just struck half-past one.”
“Then why has the master come home so soon?”
“Perhaps he will tell us that himself.”
“Here he is, Monsieur Axel; I will run and hide myself while you argue with
him.”
And Martha retreated in safety into her own dominions.
I was left alone. But how was it possible for a man of my undecided turn of
mind to argue successfully with so irascible a person as the Professor? With
this persuasion I was hurrying away to my own little retreat upstairs, when the
street door creaked upon its hinges; heavy feet made the whole flight of stairs
to shake; and the master of the house, passing rapidly through the dining-
room, threw himself in haste into his own sanctum.
But on his rapid way he had found time to fling his hazel stick into a corner,
his rough broadbrim upon the table, and these few emphatic words at his
nephew:
“Axel, follow me!”
I had scarcely had time to move when the Professor was again shouting after
me:
“What! not come yet?”
And I rushed into my redoubtable master’s study.
Otto Liedenbrock had no mischief in him, I willingly allow that; but unless he
very considerably changes as he grows older, at the end he will be a most
original character.
He was professor at the Johannaeum, and was delivering a series of lectures
on mineralogy, in the course of every one of which he broke into a passion
once or twice at least. Not at all that he was over-anxious about the
improvement of his class, or about the degree of attention with which they
listened to him, or the success which might eventually crown his labours.
Such little matters of detail never troubled him much. His teaching was as the
German philosophy calls it, ‘subjective’; it was to benefit himself, not others.
He was a learned egotist. He was a well of science, and the pulleys worked
uneasily when you wanted to draw anything out of it. In a word, he was a
learned miser.
Germany has not a few professors of this sort.
To his misfortune, my uncle was not gifted with a sufficiently rapid utterance;
not, to be sure, when he was talking at home, but certainly in his public
delivery; this is a want much to be deplored in a speaker. The fact is, that
during the course of his lectures at the Johannaeum, the Professor often came
to a complete standstill; he fought with wilful words that refused to pass his
struggling lips, such words as resist and distend the cheeks, and at last break
out into the unasked-for shape of a round and most unscientific oath: then his
fury would gradually abate.
Now in mineralogy there are many half-Greek and half-Latin terms, very hard
to articulate, and which would be most trying to a poet’s measures. I don’t
wish to say a word against so respectable a science…
 17: HISTORY OF WORLD WAR I
by Albert E. Mckinley, Ph.D.

To understand World War I, it is not sufficient to read the daily happenings of

military and naval events as they are told in newspapers and magazines. We
must go back of the facts of today and find in national history and personal
ambition the causes of the present struggle. Years of preparation were
necessary before German military leaders could convert a nation to their
views, or get ready the men, munitions, and transportation for the war they
wanted. Conflicts of races for hundreds of years have made the southeastern
part of Europe a firebrand in international affairs. The course of the Russian
revolution has been determined largely by the history of the Russian people
and of the Russian rulers during the past two centuries. The entrance of
England and Italy into the war against Germany was in each case brought
about by causes which came into existence long before August, 1914. A
person who understands, even in part, the causes of this great struggle, will be
in a better position to realize why America entered the war and what our
nation is fighting for. And better yet, he will be more ready to take part in
settling the many problems of peace which must come after the war is over.
For these reasons, the first few chapters of this book are devoted to a study of
the important facts of recent European history.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO− It is remarkable that almost exactly a century
before the present world war, Europe was engaged in a somewhat similar
struggle to prevent an ambitious French general, Napoleon Bonaparte, from
becoming the ruler of all that continent, and of America as well. He had
conquered or intimidated nearly all the states of Europe− Austria, Prussia,
Russia, Spain, etc.− except Great Britain. He once planned a great settlement
on the Mississippi River, and so alarmed President Jefferson that the latter
said the United States might be compelled to “marry themselves to the British
fleet and nation.” But England’s navy kept control of the seas; Napoleon’s
colony in North America was never founded; and at last the peoples of
Europe rose against their conqueror, and in the battle of Waterloo, June 18,
1815, finally overthrew him.
EUROPE SINCE 1815− After the downfall of Napoleon the rulers of Europe
met in conference at Vienna and sought to restore conditions as they had been
before the war. They were particularly anxious that the great masses of the
people in their several nations should continue to respect what was termed
“the divine right of kings to rule over their subjects.” They did not, except in
Great Britain, believe in representative governments. They feared free speech
and independent newspapers and liberal educational institutions. They hated
all kinds of popular movements by which the inhabitants of any country
might throw off the monarch’s yoke and secure a share in their own
government. For over thirty years the “Holy Allies,”− the name applied to the
monarchs of Austria, Prussia, and Russia− succeeded tolerably well in
keeping the peoples in subjection. But they had many difficulties to face, and
after 1848 their policy was largely given up.
DEMOCRATIC MOVEMENTS− During the nineteenth century the people of
Europe were restive under the rule of kings, and gradually governments
controlled in greater or lesser degree by…
 18: AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS
by Jules Verne

Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens,
the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable
members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting
attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except
that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron
−at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron,
who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a
Londoner. He was never seen on ‘Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the
counting-rooms of the “City”; no ships ever came into London docks of
which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been
entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln’s Inn, or
Gray’s Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in
the Exchequer, or the Queen’s Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He
certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman
farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he
never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution
or the London Institution, the Artisan’s Association, or the Institution of Arts
and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which
swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists,
founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.
The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough.
He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His
cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was
always flush.
Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not
imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to
whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary,
avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful,
or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He
was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and
seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were
quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing
that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly
puzzled.
Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more
familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an
intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the
thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and
unheard-of travelers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if
gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions.
He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from
London for many years. Those who were honored by a better acquaintance
with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen
him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the…
 19: HUCKLEBERRY FINN
by Mark Twain

You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by
Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he
stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody
but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or
maybe Mary. Aunt Polly−Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is−and Mary, and the Widow
Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some
stretchers, as I said before.
Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money
that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand
dollars apiece−all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up.
Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a
dollar a day apiece all the year round−more than a body could tell what to do
with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would
sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how
dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I
couldn’t stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-
hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up
and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would
go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.
The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called
me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in
them new clothes again, and I couldn’t do nothing but sweat and sweat, and
feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow
rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table
you couldn’t go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck
down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn’t
really anything the matter with them,−that is, nothing only everything was
cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed
up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.
After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the
Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she
let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn’t
care no more about him, because I don’t take no stock in dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she
wouldn’t. She said it was a mean practice and wasn’t clean, and I must try to
not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on
a thing when they don’t know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering
about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone,
you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some
good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she
done it herself.
Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just
come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She
worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her
ease up. I couldn’t stood it much longer. Then…
 20: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
TWYFORD, at the Bishop of St. Asaph’s, 1771.
The country-seat of Bishop Shipley, the good bishop, as Dr. Franklin used to
style him.− B.
DEAR SON: I have ever had pleasure in obtaining any little anecdotes of my
ancestors. You may remember the inquiries I made among the remains of my
relations when you were with me in England, and the journey I undertook for
that purpose. Imagining it may be equally agreeable to you to know the
circumstances of my life, many of which you are yet unacquainted with, and
expecting the enjoyment of a week’s uninterrupted leisure in my present
country retirement, I sit down to write them for you. To which I have besides
some other inducements. Having emerged from the poverty and obscurity in
which I was born and bred, to a state of affluence and some degree of
reputation in the world, and having gone so far through life with a
considerable share of felicity, the conducing means I made use of, which with
the blessing of God so well succeeded, my posterity may like to know, as they
may find some of them suitable to their own situations, and therefore fit to be
imitated.
After the words “agreeable to” the words “some of” were interlined and
afterward effaced.− B.
That felicity, when I reflected on it, has induced me sometimes to say, that
were it offered to my choice, I should have no objection to a repetition of the
same life from its beginning, only asking the advantages authors have in a
second edition to correct some faults of the first. So I might, besides
correcting the faults, change some sinister accidents and events of it for others
more favorable. But though this were denied, I should still accept the offer.
Since such a repetition is not to be expected, the next thing most like living
one’s life over again seems to be a recollection of that life, and to make that
recollection as durable as possible by putting it down in writing.
Hereby, too, I shall indulge the inclination so natural in old men, to be talking
of themselves and their own past actions; and I shall indulge it without being
tiresome to others, who, through respect to age, might conceive themselves
obliged to give me a hearing, since this may be read or not as any one pleases.
And, lastly (I may as well confess it, since my denial of it will be believed by
nobody), perhaps I shall a good deal gratify my own vanity. Indeed, I scarce
ever heard or saw the introductory words, “Without vanity I may say,” &c.,
but some vain thing immediately followed. Most people dislike vanity in
others, whatever share they have of it themselves; but I give it fair quarter
wherever I meet with it, being persuaded that it is often productive of good to
the possessor, and to others that are within his sphere of action; and therefore,
in many cases, it would not be altogether absurd if a man were to thank God
for his vanity among the other comforts of life.
And now I speak of thanking God, I desire with all humility to acknowledge
that I owe the mentioned happiness of my past life to His kind providence,
which lead me to the means I used and gave them success. My belief of this
induces me to hope, though I must not presume, that the same goodness will
still be exercised toward me, in continuing that happiness, or enabling me to
bear a fatal reverse, which I may experience…
 21: A YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY
Translated by Eden and Cedar Paul

July 12. Hella and I are writing a diary. We both agreed that when we went to
the high school we would write a diary every day. Dora keeps a diary too, but
she gets furious if I look at it. I call Helene “Hella,” and she calls me “Rita;”
Helene and Grete are so vulgar. Dora has taken to calling herself “Thea,” but I
go on calling her “Dora.” She says that little children (she means me and
Hella) ought not to keep a diary. She says they will write such a lot of
nonsense. No more than in hers and Lizzi’s.
July 13th. Really we were not to begin writing until after the holidays, but
since we are both going away, we are beginning now. Then we shall know
what we have been doing in the holidays.
The day before yesterday we had an entrance examination, it was very easy,
in dictation I made only 1 mistake−writing ihn without h. The mistress said
that didn’t matter, I had only made a slip. That is quite true, for I know well
enough that ihn has an h in it. We were both dressed in white with rose-
colored ribbons, and everyone believed we were sisters or at least cousins. It
would be very nice to have a cousin. But it’s still nicer to have a friend, for we
can tell one another everything.
July 14th. The mistress was very kind. Because of her Hella and I are really
sorry that we are not going to a middle school. Then every day before lessons
began we could have had a talk with her in the class-room. But we’re awfully
pleased because of the other girls. One is more important when one goes to
the high school instead of only to the middle school. That is why the girls are
in such a rage. “They are bursting with pride” (that’s what my sister says of
me and Hella, but it is not true). “Our two students” said the mistress when
we came away. She told us to write to her from the country. I shall.
July 15th. Lizzi, Hella’s sister, is not so horrid as Dora, she is always so nice!
Today she gave each of us at least ten chocolate-creams. It’s true Hella often
says to me: “You don’t know her, what a beast she can be. Your sister is
generally very nice to me.” Certainly it is very funny the way in which she
always speaks of us as “the little ones” or “the children,” as if she had never
been a child herself, and indeed a much littler one than we are. Besides we’re
just the same as she is now. She is in the fourth class and we are in the first.
Tomorrow we are going to Kaltenbach in Tyrol. I’m frightfully excited. Hella
went away today to Hungary to her uncle and aunt with her mother and Lizzi.
Her father is at maneuvers.
July 19th. It’s awfully hard to write every day in the holidays. Everything is
so new and one has no time to write. We are living in a big house in the forest.
Dora bagged the front veranda straight off for her own writing. At the back of
the house there are such swarms of horrid little flies; everything is black with
flies. I do hate flies and such things. I’m not going to put up with being driven
out of the front veranda. I won’t have it. Besides, Father said: “Don’t quarrel,
children!” (Children to her too!!) He’s quite right. She puts on such airs
because she’ll be fourteen in October. “The verandas are common property,”
said Father. Father’s always so just. He never lets Dora lord it over me, but
Mother often makes a favorite of Dora. I’m writing to Hella…
 22: FOUR GREAT AMERICANS
by James Baldwin, Ph.D.

THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON

When George Washington was a boy there was no United States. The land
was here, just as it is now, stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific;
but nearly all of it was wild and unknown.
Between the Atlantic Ocean and the Alleghany Mountains there were thirteen
colonies, or great settlements. The most of the people who lived in these
colonies were English people, or the children of English people; and so the
King of England made their laws and appointed their governors.
The newest of the colonies was Georgia, which was settled the year after
George Washington was born.
The oldest colony was Virginia, which had been settled one hundred and
twenty-five years. It was also the richest colony, and more people were living
in it than in any other.
There were only two or three towns in Virginia at that time, and they were
quite small.
Most of the people lived on farms or on big plantations, where they raised
whatever they needed to eat. They also raised tobacco, which they sent to
England to be sold.
The farms, or plantations, were often far apart, with stretches of thick woods
between them. Nearly everyone was close to a river, or some other large body
of water; for there are many rivers in Virginia.
There were no roads, such as we have nowadays, but only paths through the
woods. When people wanted to travel from place to place, they had to go on
foot, or on horseback, or in small boats.
A few of the rich men who lived on the big plantations had coaches; and now
and then they would drive out in grand style behind four or six horses, with a
fine array of servants and outriders following them. But they could not drive
far where there were no roads, and we can hardly understand how they got
any pleasure out of it.
Nearly all the work on the plantations was done by slaves. Ships had been
bringing negroes from Africa for more than a hundred years, and now nearly
half the people in Virginia were blacks.
Very often, also, poor white men from England were sold as slaves for a few
years in order to pay for their passage across the ocean. When their freedom
was given to them they continued to work at whatever they could find to do;
or they cleared small farms in the woods for themselves, or went farther to the
west and became woodsmen and hunters.
There was but very little money in Virginia at that time, and, indeed, there
was not much use for it. For what could be done with money where there
were no shops worth speaking of, and no stores, and nothing to buy?
The common people raised flax and wool, and wove their own cloth; and they
made their own tools and furniture. The rich people did the same; but for their
better or finer goods they sent to England.
For you must know that in all this country there were no great mills for
spinning and weaving as there are now; there were no factories of any kind;
there were no foundries where iron could be melted and shaped into all kinds
of useful and beautiful things.
When George Washington was a boy the world was not much like it is now.
George Washington’s father owned a large plantation on the western shore of
the Potomac River. George’s great-grandfather, John Washington, had settled
upon it nearly eighty years before, and there the family had dwelt ever since.
This plantation was in Westmoreland…
 23: THE ADVENTURES OF PINOCCHIO
by C. Collodi

How it happened that Mastro Cherry, carpenter, found a piece of wood that
wept and laughed like a child.
Centuries ago there lived−
“A king!” my little readers will say immediately.
No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood.
It was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common block of
firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to
make cold rooms cozy and warm.
I do not know how this really happened, yet the fact remains that one fine day
this piece of wood found itself in the shop of an old carpenter. His real name
was Mastro Antonio, but everyone called him Mastro Cherry, for the tip of his
nose was so round and red and shiny that it looked like a ripe cherry.
As soon as he saw that piece of wood, Mastro Cherry was filled with joy.
Rubbing his hands together happily, he mumbled half to himself:
“This has come in the nick of time. I shall use it to make the leg of a table.”
He grasped the hatchet quickly to peel off the bark and shape the wood. But
as he was about to give it the first blow, he stood still with arm uplifted, for he
had heard a wee, little voice say in a beseeching tone: “Please be careful! Do
not hit me so hard!”
What a look of surprise shone on Mastro Cherry’s face! His funny face
became still funnier.
He turned frightened eyes about the room to find out where that wee, little
voice had come from and he saw no one! He looked under the bench−no one!
He peeped inside the closet−no one! He searched among the shavings−no
one! He opened the door to look up and down the street−and still no one!
“Oh, I see!” he then said, laughing and scratching his Wig. “It can easily be
seen that I only thought I heard the tiny voice say the words! Well, well−to
work once more.”
He struck a most solemn blow upon the piece of wood.
“Oh, oh! You hurt!” cried the same far-away little voice.
Mastro Cherry grew dumb, his eyes popped out of his head, his mouth opened
wide, and his tongue hung down on his chin.
As soon as he regained the use of his senses, he said, trembling and stuttering
from fright:
“Where did that voice come from, when there is no one around? Might it be
that this piece of wood has learned to weep and cry like a child? I can hardly
believe it. Here it is−a piece of common firewood, good only to burn in the
stove, the same as any other. Yet−might someone be hidden in it? If so, the
worse for him. I’ll fix him!”
With these words, he grabbed the log with both hands and started to knock it
about unmercifully. He threw it to the floor, against the walls of the room, and
even up to the ceiling.
He listened for the tiny voice to moan and cry. He waited two minutes
−nothing; five minutes−nothing; ten minutes−nothing.
“Oh, I see,” he said, trying bravely to laugh and ruffling up his wig with his
hand. “It can easily be seen I only imagined I heard the tiny voice! Well, well
−to work once more!”
The poor fellow was scared half to death, so he tried to sing a gay song in
order to gain courage.
He set aside the hatchet and picked up the plane to make the wood smooth
and even, but as he drew it to and fro, he heard the same tiny voice. This time
it giggled as it spoke:
“Stop it! Oh, stop it! Ha, ha, ha! You tickle my stomach.”
This time poor Mastro Cherry fell as if shot. When he opened his…
 24: DUBLINERS
by James Joyce

There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night
I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of
window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly
and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on
the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a
corpse. He had often said to me: “I am not long for this world,” and I had
thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up
at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always
sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the
word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of
some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be
nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.
Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper.
While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some
former remark of his:
“No, I wouldn’t say he was exactly… but there was something queer… there
was something uncanny about him. I’ll tell you my opinion…”
He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind.
Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting,
talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless
stories about the distillery.
“I have my own theory about it,” he said. “I think it was one of those …
peculiar cases… But it’s hard to say…”
He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw
me staring and said to me:
“Well, so your old friend is gone, you’ll be sorry to hear.”
“Who?” said I.
“Father Flynn.”
“Is he dead?”
“Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house.”
I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news had
not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.
“The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a great
deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him.”
“God have mercy on his soul,” said my aunt piously.
Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black eyes were
examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from my plate. He
returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate.
“I wouldn’t like children of mine,” he said, “to have too much to say to a man
like that.”
“How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?” asked my aunt.
“What I mean is,” said old Cotter, “it’s bad for children. My idea is: let a
young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and not be…
Am I right, Jack?”
“That’s my principle, too,” said my uncle. “Let him learn to box his corner.
That’s what I’m always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take exercise. Why,
when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold bath, winter and
summer. And that’s what stands to me now. Education is all very fine and
large… Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that leg mutton,” he added to my aunt.
“No, no, not for me,” said old Cotter.
My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.
“But why do you think it’s not good for children, Mr. Cotter?” she asked.
“It’s bad for children,” said old Cotter, “because their minds are so
impressionable…
 25: WHAT IS COMING AFTER WWI?
by H.G. Wells

Prophecy may vary between being an intellectual amusement and a serious

occupation; serious not only in its intentions, but in its consequences. For it is
the lot of prophets who frighten or disappoint to be stoned. But for some of us
moderns, who have been touched with the spirit of science, prophesying is
almost a habit of mind.
Science is very largely analysis aimed at forecasting. The test of any scientific
law is our verification of its anticipations. The scientific training develops the
idea that whatever is going to happen is really here now− if only one could
see it. And when one is taken by surprise the tendency is not to say with the
untrained man, “Now, who’d ha’ thought it?” but “Now, what was it we
overlooked?”
Everything that has ever existed or that will ever exist is here− for anyone
who has eyes to see. But some of it demands eyes of superhuman penetration.
Some of it is patent; we are almost as certain of next Christmas and the tides
of the year 1960 and the death before 3000 A.D. of everybody now alive as if
these things had already happened. Below that level of certainty, but still at a
very high level of certainty, there are such things as that men will probably be
making airplanes of an improved pattern in 1950, or that there will be a
through railway connection between Constantinople and Bombay and
between Baku and Bombay in the next half-century. From such grades of
certainty as this, one may come down the scale until the most obscure
mystery of all is reached: the mystery of the individual. Will England
presently produce a military genius? or what will Mr. Belloc say the day after
tomorrow? The most accessible field for the prophet is the heavens; the least
is the secret of the jumping cat within the human skull. How will so-and-so
behave, and how will the nation take it? For such questions as that we need
the subtlest guesses of all.
Yet, even to such questions as these the sharp, observant man may risk an
answer with something rather better than an even chance of being right.
The present writer is a prophet by use and wont. He is more interested in
tomorrow than he is in today, and the past is just material for future guessing.
“Think of the men who have walked here!” said a tourist in the Roman
Coliseum. It was a Futurist mind that answered: “Think of the men who will.”
It is surely as interesting that presently some founder of the World Republic,
some obstinate opponent of militarism or legalism, or the man who will first
release atomic energy for human use, will walk along the Via Sacra as that
Cicero or Giordano Bruno or Shelley have walked there in the past. To the
prophetic mind all history is and will continue to be a prelude. The prophetic
type will steadfastly refuse to see the world as a museum; it will insist that
here is a stage set for a drama that perpetually begins.
Now this forecasting disposition has led the writer not only to publish a book
of deliberate prophesying, called “Anticipations,” but almost without
premeditation to scatter a number of more or less obvious prophecies through
his other books. From first to last he has been writing for twenty years, so that
it is possible to check a certain proportion of these anticipations by the things
that have happened. Some of these shots have hit remarkably…
 26: OLD GREEK STORIES
by James Baldwin

A long time ago, when the world was much younger than it is now, people
told and believed a great many wonderful stories about wonderful things
which neither you nor I have ever seen. They often talked about a certain
Mighty Being called Jupiter, or Zeus, who was king of the sky and the earth;
and they said that he sat most of the time amid the clouds on the top of a very
high mountain where he could look down and see everything that was going
on in the earth beneath. He liked to ride on the storm-clouds and hurl burning
thunderbolts right and left among the trees and rocks; and he was so very,
very mighty that when he nodded, the earth quaked, the mountains trembled
and smoked, the sky grew black, and the sun hid his face.
Jupiter had two brothers, both of them terrible fellows, but not nearly so great
as himself. The name of one of them was Neptune, or Poseidon, and he was
the king of the sea. He had a glittering, golden palace far down in the deep
sea-caves where the fishes live and the red coral grows; and whenever he was
angry the waves would rise mountain high, and the storm-winds would howl
fearfully, and the sea would try to break over the land; and men called him the
Shaker of the Earth.
The other brother of Jupiter was a sad pale-faced being, whose kingdom was
underneath the earth, where the sun never shone and where there was
darkness and weeping and sorrow all the time. His name was Pluto, or
Aidoneus, and his country was called the Lower World, or the Land of
Shadows, or Hades. Men said that whenever anyone died, Pluto would send
his messenger, or Shadow Leader, to carry that one down into his cheerless
kingdom; and for that reason they never spoke well of him, but thought of
him only as the enemy of life.
A great number of other Mighty Beings lived with Jupiter amid the clouds on
the mountain top−so many that I can name a very few only. There was Venus,
the queen of love and beauty, who was fairer by far than any woman that you
or I have ever seen. There was Athena, or Minerva, the queen of the air, who
gave people wisdom and taught them how to do very many useful things.
There was Juno, the queen of earth and sky, who sat at the right hand of
Jupiter and gave him all kinds of advice. There was Mars, the great warrior,
whose delight was in the din of battle. There was Mercury, the swift
messenger, who had wings on his cap and shoes, and who flew from place to
place like the summer clouds when they are driven before the wind. There
was Vulcan, a skillful blacksmith, who had his forge in a burning mountain
and wrought many wonderful things of iron and copper and gold. And besides
these, there were many others about whom you will learn by and by, and
about whom men told strange and beautiful stories.
They lived in glittering, golden mansions, high up among the clouds−so high
indeed that the eyes of men could never see them. But they could look down
and see what men were doing, and oftentimes they were said to leave their
lofty homes and wander unknown across the land or over the sea.
And of all these Mighty Folk, Jupiter was by far the mightiest.
Jupiter and his Mighty Folk had not always dwelt amid the clouds on the
mountain top. In times long past, a wonderful family called Titans had lived
there and had ruled over all the world. There…
 27: THE EMPIRE OF RUSSIA
by John S. C. Abbott

Those vast realms of northern Europe, now called Russia, have been inhabited
for a period beyond the records of history, by wandering tribes of savages.
These barbaric hordes have left no monuments of their existence. The annals
of Greece and of Rome simply inform us that they were there. Generations
came and departed, passing through life’s tragic drama, and no one has told
their story.
About five hundred years before the birth of our Savior, the Greeks, sailing up
the Bosphorus and braving the storms of the Black Sea, began to plant their
colonies along its shores. Instructed by these colonists, Herodotus, who wrote
about four hundred and forty years before Christ, gives some information
respecting the then condition of interior Russia. The first great irruption into
the wastes of Russia, of which history gives us any record, was about one
hundred years before our Savior. An immense multitude of conglomerated
tribes, taking the general name of Scythians, with their wives and their
children, their flocks and their herds, and their warriors, fiercer than wolves,
crossed the Volga, and took possession of the whole country between the Don
and the Danube. These barbarians did not molest the Greek colonies, but, on
the contrary, were glad to learn of them many of the rudiments of civilization.
Some of these tribes retained their ancestral habits of wandering herdsmen,
and, with their flocks, traversed the vast and treeless plains, where they found
ample pasture. Others selecting sunny and fertile valleys, scattered their seed
and cultivated the soil. Thus the Scythians were divided into two quite distinct
classes, the herdsmen and the laborers.
The tribes who then peopled the vast wilds of northern Europe and Asia,
though almost innumerable, and of different languages and customs, were all
called, by the Greeks, Scythians, as we have given the general name of
Indians to all the tribes who formerly ranged the forests of North America.
The Scythians were as ferocious a race as earth has ever known. They drank
the blood of their enemies; tanned their skins for garments; used their skulls
for drinking cups; and worshiped a sword as the image or emblem of their
favorite deity, the God of War. Philip of Macedon was the first who put any
check upon their proud spirit. He conquered them in a decisive battle, and
thus taught them that they were not invincible. Alexander the Great assailed
them and spread the terror of his arms throughout all the region between the
Danube and the Dnieper. Subsequently the Roman legions advanced to the
Euxine, and planted their eagles upon the heights of the Caucasus.
The Roman historians seem to have dropped the Scythian name, and they
called the whole northern expanse of Europe and Asia, Sarmatia, and the
barbarous inhabitants Sarmatians. About the time of our Savior, some of these
fierce tribes from the banks of the Theiss and the Danube, commenced their
assaults upon the frontiers of the Roman empire. This was the signal for that
war of centuries, which terminated in the overthrow of the throne of the
Caesars. The Roman Senate, enervated by luxury, condescended to purchase
peace of these barbarians, and nations of savages, whose names are now
forgotten, exacted tribute, under guise of payment for alliance, from the
proud…
 28: BLACK BEAUTY
by Anna Sewell

The first place that I can well remember was a large pleasant meadow with a
pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and
water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a
plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master’s house,
which stood by the roadside; at the top of the meadow was a grove of fir trees,
and at the bottom a running brook overhung by a steep bank.
While I was young I lived upon my mother’s milk, as I could not eat grass. In
the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it
was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it
was cold we had a nice warm shed near the grove.
As soon as I was old enough to eat grass my mother used to go out to work in
the daytime, and come back in the evening.
There were six young colts in the meadow besides me; they were older than I
was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run with them,
and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and round the field as
hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would
frequently bite and kick as well as gallop.
One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me
to come to her, and then she said:
“I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts who
live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and of course they
have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your
father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup two
years at the Newmarket races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of
any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope
you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work
with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick
even in play.”
I have never forgotten my mother’s advice; I knew she was a wise old horse,
and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he
often called her Pet.
Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging, and
kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children. We were
all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at
the gate she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and
stroke her and say, “Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?” I was a dull
black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give me a piece of bread, which
was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the
horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother
always took him to the town on a market day in a light gig.
There was a plowboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck
blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted he would have
what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make
them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but
sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.
One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next
field; but he was there, watching what was going on; over the hedge he
jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on…
 29: A CHRISTMAS CAROL
by Charles Dickens

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The
register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker,
and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon
’Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as
a doornail.
Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know of my own knowledge, what there is
particularly dead about a doornail. I might have been inclined, myself, to
regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the
wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not
disturb it, or the country’s done for. You will, therefore, permit me to repeat,
emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a doornail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise?
Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was
his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary
legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so
dreadfully cut up by the sad event but that he was an excellent man of
business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted
bargain.
The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from.
There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood,
or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were
not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s father died before the play began, there
would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly
wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in a breezy spot —say St
Paul’s Churchyard, for instance —literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.
Scrooge never painted out Old Marley’s name. There it stood, years
afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was
known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called
it Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all
the same to him.
Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing,
wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp
as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and
self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old
features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made
his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A
frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He
carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in
the dog-days, and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.
External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could
warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he,
no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to
entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and
snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one
respect. They often ‘came down’ handsomely, and Scrooge never did.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, ‘My dear
Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?’ No beggars…
 30: STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
by Sara Cone Bryant

THE LITTLE YELLOW TULIP

Once there was a little yellow Tulip, and she lived down in a little dark house
under the ground. One day she was sitting there, all by herself, and it was
very still. Suddenly, she heard a little tap, tap, tap, at the door.
“Who is that?” she said.
“It’s the Rain, and I want to come in,” said a soft, sad, little voice.
“No, you can’t come in,” the little Tulip said.
By and by she heard another little tap, tap, tap on the window-pane.
“Who is there?” she said.
The same soft little voice answered, “It’s the Rain, and I want to come in!”
“No, you can’t come in,” said the little Tulip.
Then it was very still for a long time. At last, there came a little rustling,
whispering sound, all round the window: rustle, whisper, whisper.
“Who is there?” said the little Tulip.
“It’s the Sunshine,” said a little, soft, cheery voice, “and I want to come in!”
“N− no,” said the little Tulip, “you can’t come in.” And she sat still again.
Pretty soon she heard the sweet little rustling noise at the keyhole.
“Who is there?” she said.
“It’s the Sunshine,” said the cheery little voice, “and I want to come in, I want
to come in!”
“No, no,” said the little Tulip, “you cannot come in.”
By and by, as she sat so still, she heard tap, tap, tap, and rustle, whisper,
rustle, up and down the window-pane, and on the door and at the keyhole.
“Who is there?” she said.
“It’s the Rain and the Sun, the Rain and the Sun,” said two little voices,
together, “and we want to come in! We want to come in! We want to come
in!”
“Dear, dear!” said the little Tulip, “if there are two of you, I suppose I shall
have to let you in.”
So she opened the door a little wee crack, and in they came. And one took one
of her little hands, and the other took her other little hand, and they ran, ran,
ran with her right up to the top of the ground. Then they said,−
“Poke your head through!”
So she poked her head through; and she was in the midst of a beautiful
garden. It was early springtime, and few other flowers were to be seen; but
she had the birds to sing to her and the sun to shine upon her pretty yellow
head. She was so pleased, too, when the children exclaimed with pleasure that
now they knew that the beautiful spring had come!
THE CLOUD
One hot summer morning a little Cloud rose out of the sea and floated lightly
and happily across the blue sky. Far below lay the earth, brown, dry, and
desolate, from drought. The little Cloud could see the poor people of the earth
working and suffering in the hot fields, while she herself floated on the
morning breeze, hither and thither, without a care.
“Oh, if I could only help the poor people down there!” she thought. “If I could
but make their work easier, or give the hungry ones food, or the thirsty a
drink!”
And as the day passed, and the Cloud became larger, this wish to do
something for the people of earth was ever greater in her heart.
On earth it grew hotter and hotter; the sun burned down so fiercely that the
people were fainting in its rays; it seemed as if they must die of heat, and yet
they were obliged to go on with their work, for they were very poor.
Sometimes they stood and looked up at the Cloud, as if they were praying,
and saying, “Ah, if you could help us!”
“I will help you; I will!” said the Cloud. And she began to sink softly down
toward the…
 31: THE ALAMO AND GOLIAD
by Joseph A. Altsheler

The horseman rode slowly toward the west, stopping once or twice to
examine the wide circle of the horizon with eyes that were trained to note
every aspect of the wilderness. On his right the plains melted away in gentle
swell after swell, until they met the horizon. Their brown surface was broken
only by the spiked and thorny cactus and stray bits of chaparral.
On his left was the wide bed of a river which flowed through the sand,
breaking here and there into several streams, and then reuniting, only to
scatter its volume a hundred yards further into three or four channels. A bird
of prey flew on strong wing over the water, dipped and then rose again, but
there was no other sign of life. Beyond, the country southward rolled away,
gray and bare, sterile and desolate.
The horseman looked most often into the south. His glances into the north
were few and brief, but his eyes dwelled long on the lonely land that lay
beyond the yellow current. His was an attractive face. He was young, only a
boy, but the brow was broad and high, and the eyes, grave and steady, were
those of one who thought much. He was clad completely in buckskin, and his
hat was wide of brim. A rifle held in one hand lay across the pommel of his
saddle and there were weapons in his belt. Two light, but warm, blankets,
folded closely, were tied behind him. The tanned face and the lithe, strong
figure showed a wonderful degree of health and strength.
Several hours passed and the horseman rode on steadily though slowly. His
main direction was toward the west, and always he kept the river two or three
hundred yards on his left. He never failed to search the plains on either side,
but chiefly in the south, with the eager, intent gaze that missed nothing. But
the lonesome gray land, cut by the coiling yellow river, still rolled before him,
and its desolation and chill struck to his heart. It was the depth of the Texan
winter, and, at times, icy gusts, born in far mountains, swept across the plains.
The rider presently turned his horse toward the river and stopped on a low
bluff overlooking it. His face showed a tinge of disappointment, as if his eyes
failed to find objects for which they sought. Again he gazed long and
patiently into the south, but without reward.
He resumed his ride parallel with the river, but soon stopped a second time,
and held up an open hand, like one who tests the wind. The air was growing
perceptibly colder. The strong gusts were now fusing into a steady wind. The
day, which had not been bright at any time, was turning darker. The sun was
gone and in the far north banks of mists and vapor were gathering. A dreary
moaning came over the plain.
Ned Fulton, tried and brave though he was, beheld the omens with alarm. He
knew what they portended, and in all that vast wilderness he was alone. Not a
human being to share the danger with him! Not a hand to help!
He looked for chaparral, something that might serve as a sort of shelter, but he
had left the last clump of it behind, and now he turned and rode directly north,
hoping that he might find some deep depression between the swells where he
and his horse, in a fashion, could hide.
Meanwhile the Norther came down with astonishing speed. The temperature
fell like a plummet. The moan of the wind rose to a shriek, and cold clouds…
 32: CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS
by Elbridge S Brooks

Men who do great things are men we all like to read about. This is the story of
Christopher Columbus, the man who discovered America. He lived four
hundred years ago. When he was a little boy he lived in Genoa. It was a
beautiful city in the northwestern part of the country called Italy. The
mountains were behind it; the sea was in front of it, and it was so beautiful a
place that the people who lived there called it “Genoa the Superb.”
Christopher Columbus was born in this beautiful city of Genoa in the year
1446, at number 27 Ponticello Street. He was a bright little fellow with a
fresh-looking face, a clear eye and golden hair. His father’s name was
Domenico Columbus; his mother’s name was Susanna. His father was a
wool-comber. He cleaned and straightened out the snarled-up wool that was
cut from the sheep so as to make it ready to be woven into cloth.
Christopher helped his father do this when he grew strong enough, but he
went to school, too, and learned to read and write and to draw maps and
charts. These charts were maps of the sea, to show the sailors where they
could steer without running on the rocks and sand, and how to sail safely from
one country to another.
This world was not as big then as it is now−or, should say, people did not
know it was as big. Most of the lands that Columbus had studied about in
school, and most of the people he had heard about, were in Europe and parts
of Asia and Africa. The city of Genoa where Columbus lived was a very busy
and a very rich city. It was on the Mediterranean Sea, and many of the people
who lived there were sailors who went in their ships on voyages to distant
lands. They sailed to other places on the Mediterranean Sea, which is a very
large body of water, you know, and to England, to France, to Norway, and
even as far away as the cold northern island of Iceland. This was thought to
be a great journey.
The time in which Columbus lived was not as nice a time as is this in which
you live. People were always quarreling and fighting about one thing or
another, and the sailors who belonged to one country would try to catch and
steal the ships or the things that belonged to the sailors or the storekeepers of
another country. This is what we call piracy, and a pirate, you know, is
thought to be a very wicked man.
But when Columbus lived, men did not think it was so very wicked to be a
sort of half-way pirate, although they did know that they would be killed if
they were caught. So almost every sailor was about half pirate. Every boy
who lived near the seashore and saw the ships and the sailors, felt as though
he would like to sail away to far-off lands and see all the strange sights and do
all the brave things that the sailors told about. Many of them even said they
would like to be pirates and fight with other sailors, and show how strong and
brave and plucky they could be.
Columbus was one of these. He was what is called an adventurous boy. He
did not like to stay quietly at home with his father and comb out the tangled
wool. He thought it would be much nicer to sail away to sea and be a brave
captain or a rich merchant.
When he was about fourteen years old he really did go to sea. There was a
captain of a sailing vessel that sometimes came to Genoa, who had the same
last name−Columbus. He was no…
 33: THE ONTARIO READERS
by unknown authors

FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR

One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He carried
an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a few cents to buy
something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he kept wondering why it
was that folks who had so much money were never satisfied but were always
wanting more.
“Here,” said he, “is the master of this house−I know him well. He was always
a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long time ago.
Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have turned over his
business to someone else, and then he could have spent the rest of his life in
ease. But what did he do instead? He built ships and sent them to sea to trade
with foreign lands. He thought he would get mountains of gold.
“But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and his
riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now all his hopes lie at the bottom
of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished.
“There are many such cases. Men seem to be never satisfied unless they gain
the whole world.
“As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear, I would not want
anything more.”
Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar and
stopped. She said to him:
“Listen! I have long wished to help you. Hold your wallet and I will pour this
gold into it, but only on this condition: all that falls into the wallet shall be
pure gold; but every piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. Do
you understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” said the beggar.
“Then have a care,” said Fortune. “Your wallet is old, so do not load it too
heavily.”
The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his
wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars poured into it. The wallet grew heavy.
“Is that enough?” asked Fortune.
“Not yet.”
“Isn’t it cracking?”
“Never fear.”
The beggar’s hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would only
pour forever!
“You are the richest man in the world now!”
“Just a little more, add just a handful or two.”
“There, it’s full. The wallet will burst.”
“But it will hold a little, just a little more!”
Another piece was added, and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon the
ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar had now
nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from top to bottom. He was as
poor as before.
THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE
“You skate, of course, Winkle?” said Wardle.
“Ye-yes; oh, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle. “I−I−am rather out of practice.”
“Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like to see it so much.”
“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady. A third young lady said it was
elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was “swan-like.”
“I should be very happy, I’m sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening; “but I have
no skates.”
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of pair, and
the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs, whereat
Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr.
Weller, having shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it
during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which
to Mr. Winkle seemed perfectly marvelous…
 34: LIFE OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
by William M. Thayer

“I am tired of so much persecution under the reign of our corrupt king,” said a
neighbor to Josiah Franklin, one day in the year 1685, in the usually quiet
village of Banbury, England, “and I believe that I shall pull up stakes and
emigrate to Boston. That is the most thriving port in America.”
“Well, I am not quite prepared for that yet,” replied Franklin. “Our king is bad
enough and tyrannical enough to make us all sick of our native land. But it is
a great step to leave it forever, to live among strangers; and I could not decide
to do it without a good deal of reflection.”
“Nor I; but I have reflected upon it for a whole year now, and the more I
reflect the more I am inclined to emigrate. When I can’t worship God here as
my conscience dictates, I will go where I can. Besides, I think the new
country promises much more to the common people than the old in the way of
a livelihood.”
“Perhaps so; I have not given the subject much attention. Dissenters have a
hard time here under Charles II, and we all have to work hard enough for a
livelihood. I do not think you can have a harder time in Boston.”
Josiah Franklin was not disposed to emigrate when his neighbor first opened
the subject. He was an intelligent, enterprising, Christian man, a dyer by
trade, was born in Ecton, Leicestershire, in 1655, but removed to Banbury in
his boyhood, to learn the business of a dyer of his brother John. He was
married in Banbury at twenty-two years of age, his wife being an excellent
companion for him, whether in prosperity or adversity, at home among kith
and kin, or with strangers in New England.
“You better consider this matter seriously,” continued the neighbor, “for
several families will go, I think, if one goes. A little colony of us will make it
comparatively easy to leave home for a new country.”
“Very true; that would be quite an inducement to exchange countries, several
families going together,” responded Franklin. “I should enjoy escaping from
the oppression of the Established Church as much as you; but it is a too
important step for me to take without much consideration. It appears to me
that my business could not be as good in a new country as it is in this old
country.”
“I do not see why, exactly. People in a new country must have dyeing done,
perhaps not so much of it as the people of an old country; but the population
of a new place like Boston increases faster than the older places of our
country, and this fact would offset the objection you name.”
“In part, perhaps. If Benjamin could go, I should almost feel that I must go;
but I suppose it is entirely out of the question for him to go.”
Benjamin was an older brother of Josiah, who went to learn the trade of a
dyer of his brother John before Josiah did. The Benjamin Franklin of this
volume, our young hero, was named for him. He was a very pious man, who
rendered unto God the things that are God’s with full as much care as he
rendered unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. He was a very intelligent,
bright man, also quite a poet for that day, and he invented a style of short-
hand writing that he used in taking down sermons to which he listened. In this
way he accumulated several volumes of sermons, which he held as treasures.
“I have not spoken with your brother about the matter,” replied the
neighbor…
 35: A LITTLE PRINCESS
by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Once on a dark winter’s day, when the yellow fog hung so thick and heavy in
the streets of London that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows
blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd- looking little girl sat in a cab with
her father and was driven rather slowly through the big thoroughfares.
She sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned against her father, who held
her in his arm, as she stared out of the window at the passing people with a
queer old-fashioned thoughtfulness in her big eyes.
She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her
small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara
Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming
and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she
had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they
belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time.
At this moment she was remembering the voyage she had just made from
Bombay with her father, Captain Crewe. She was thinking of the big ship, of
the Lascars passing silently to and fro on it, of the children playing about on
the hot deck, and of some young officers’ wives who used to try to make her
talk to them and laugh at the things she said.
Principally, she was thinking of what a queer thing it was that at one time one
was in India in the blazing sun, and then in the middle of the ocean, and then
driving in a strange vehicle through strange streets where the day was as dark
as the night. She found this so puzzling that she moved closer to her father.
“Papa,” she said in a low, mysterious little voice which was almost a whisper,
“papa.”
“What is it, darling?” Captain Crewe answered, holding her closer and
looking down into her face. “What is Sara thinking of?”
“Is this the place?” Sara whispered, cuddling still closer to him. “Is it, papa?”
“Yes, little Sara, it is. We have reached it at last.” And though she was only
seven years old, she knew that he felt sad when he said it.
It seemed to her many years since he had begun to prepare her mind for “the
place,” as she always called it. Her mother had died when she was born, so
she had never known or missed her. Her young, handsome, rich, petting father
seemed to be the only relation she had in the world. They had always played
together and been fond of each other. She only knew he was rich because she
had heard people say so when they thought she was not listening, and she had
also heard them say that when she grew up she would be rich, too. She did not
know all that being rich meant. She had always lived in a beautiful bungalow,
and had been used to seeing many servants who made salaams to her and
called her “Missee Sahib,” and gave her her own way in everything. She had
had toys and pets and an ayah who worshipped her, and she had gradually
learned that people who were rich had these things. That, however, was all
she knew about it.
During her short life only one thing had troubled her, and that thing was “the
place” she was to be taken to some day. The climate of India was very bad for
children, and as soon as possible they were sent away from it− generally to
England and to school. She had seen other children go away, and had heard
their fathers and mothers talk about the…
 36: THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER
by Mark Twain

Chapter I
The birth of the Prince and the Pauper.
In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter
of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of
Canty, who did not want him. On the same day another English child was
born to a rich family of the name of Tudor, who did want him. All England
wanted him too. England had so longed for him, and hoped for him, and
prayed God for him, that, now that he was really come, the people went
nearly mad for joy. Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and
cried. Everybody took a holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and
danced and sang, and got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and
nights together. By day, London was a sight to see, with gay banners waving
from every balcony and housetop, and splendid pageants marching along. By
night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at every corner, and
its troops of revelers making merry around them. There was no talk in all
England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, who lay lapped
in silks and satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and not knowing that great
lords and ladies were tending him and watching over him−and not caring,
either. But there was no talk about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in his
poor rags, except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to
trouble with his presence.
Chapter II
Tom’s early life.
Let us skip a number of years.
London was fifteen hundred years old, and was a great town−for that day. It
had a hundred thousand inhabitants−some think double as many. The streets
were very narrow, and crooked, and dirty, especially in the part where Tom
Canty lived, which was not far from London Bridge. The houses were of
wood, with the second story projecting over the first, and the third sticking its
elbows out beyond the second. The higher the houses grew, the broader they
grew. They were skeletons of strong criss-cross beams, with solid material
between, coated with plaster. The beams were painted red or blue or black,
according to the owner’s taste, and this gave the houses a very picturesque
look. The windows were small, glazed with little diamond-shaped panes, and
they opened outward, on hinges, like doors.
The house which Tom’s father lived in was up a foul little pocket called Offal
Court, out of Pudding Lane. It was small, decayed, and rickety, but it was
packed full of wretchedly poor families. Canty’s tribe occupied a room on the
third floor. The mother and father had a sort of bedstead in the corner; but
Tom, his grandmother, and his two sisters, Bet and Nan, were not restricted
−they had all the floor to themselves, and might sleep where they chose.
There were the remains of a blanket or two, and some bundles of ancient and
dirty straw, but these could not rightly be called beds, for they were not
organized; they were kicked into a general pile, mornings, and selections
made from the mass at night, for service.
Bet and Nan were fifteen years old−twins. They were good-hearted girls,
unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant. Their mother was like
them. But the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends. They got
drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody else who
came in the way; they…
 37: BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
by Marie Le Prince de Beaumont

There was once a very rich merchant, who had six children, three sons, and
three daughters; being a man of sense, he spared no cost for their education,
but gave them all kinds of masters. His daughters were extremely handsome,
especially the youngest; when she was little, everybody admired her, and
called her The Little Beauty; so that, as she grew up, she still went by the
name of Beauty, which made her sisters very jealous. The youngest, as she
was handsome, was also better than her sisters. The two eldest had a great
deal of pride, because they were rich. They gave themselves ridiculous airs,
and would not visit other merchants’ daughters, nor keep company with any
but persons of quality. They went out every day upon parties of pleasure,
balls, plays, concerts, etc. and laughed at their youngest sister, because she
spent the greatest part of her time in reading good books. As it was known
that they were to have great fortunes, several eminent merchants made their
addresses to them; but the two eldest said they would never marry, unless they
could meet with a Duke, or an Earl at least. Beauty very civilly thanked them
that courted her, and told them she was too young yet to marry, but chose to
stay with her father a few years longer.
All at once the merchant lost his whole fortune, excepting a small country-
house at a great distance from town, and told his children, with tears in his
eyes, they most go there and work for their living. The two eldest answered,
that they would not leave the town, for they had several lovers, who they were
sure would be glad to have them, though they had no fortune; but in this they
were mistaken, for their lovers slighted and forsook them in their poverty. As
they were not beloved on account of their pride, everybody said, “they do not
deserve to be pitied, we are glad to see their pride humbled, let them go and
give themselves quality airs in milking the cows and minding their dairy. But,
(added they,) we are extremely concerned for Beauty, she was such a
charming, sweet-tempered creature, spoke so kindly to poor people, and was
of such an affable, obliging disposition.” Nay, several gentlemen would have
married her, though they knew she had not a penny; but she told them she
could not think of leaving her poor father in his misfortunes, but was
determined to go along with him into the country to comfort and attend him.
Poor Beauty at first was sadly grieved at the loss of her fortune; “but, (she
said to herself,) were I to cry ever so much, that would not make things better,
I must try to make myself happy without a fortune.” When they came to their
country-house, the merchant and his three sons applied themselves to
husbandry and tillage; and Beauty rose at four in the morning, and made haste
to have the house clean, and breakfast ready for the family. In the beginning
she found it very difficult, for she had not been used to work as a servant; but
in less than two months she grew stronger and healthier than ever. After she
had done her work, she read, played on the harpsichord, or else sung whilst
she spun. On the contrary, her two sisters did not know how to spend their
time; they got up at ten, and did nothing but saunter about the whole day,
lamenting the loss of their fine clothes and acquaintance…
 38: PUBLIC SPEAKING PRINCIPLES
by Irvah Lester Winter

The common trouble in using the voice for the more vigorous or intense
forms of speaking is a contraction or straining of the throat. This impedes the
free flow of voice, causing impaired tone, poor enunciation, and unhealthy
physical conditions. Students should, therefore, be constantly warned against
the least beginnings of this fault. The earlier indications of it may not be
observed, or the nature of the trouble may not be known, by the untrained
speaker. But it ought to have, from the first, the attention of a skilled teacher,
for the more deep-seated it becomes, the harder is its cure. So very common is
the “throaty” tone and so connected is throat pressure with every other vocal
imperfection, that the avoiding or the correcting of this one fault demands
constant watchfulness in all vigorous vocal work. The way to avoid the faulty
control of voice is, of course, to learn at the proper time the general principles
of what singers call voice production. These principles are few and, in a
sense, are very simple, but they are not easily made perfectly clear in writing,
and a perfect application of them, even in the simpler forms of speaking, often
requires persistent practice. It will be the aim here to state only what the
student is most likely to understand and profit by, and to leave the rest to the
personal guidance of a teacher.
The control of the voice, so far as it can be a conscious physical operation, is
determined chiefly by the action of the breathing muscles about the waist and
the lower part of the chest. The voice may be said to have its foundation in
this part of the physical man. This foundation, or center of control, will be
rightly established, not by any very positive physical action; not by a decided
raising of the chest; not by any such marked expansion or contraction as to
bring physical discomfort or rigid muscular conditions. When the breath is
taken in, by an easy, natural expansion, much as air is taken into a bellows,
there is, to a certain degree, a firming of the breathing muscles; but this
muscular tension is felt by the speaker or singer, if felt at all, simply as a
comfortable fullness around, and slightly above, the waistline, probably more
in front than elsewhere. An eminent teacher of singing tells his pupils to draw
the breath into the stomach. That probably suggests the sensation. When the
breath has been taken in, it is to be gently withheld−not given up too freely
−and the tone is formed on the top, so to speak, of this body of breath, chiefly,
of course, in the mouth and head. For the stronger and larger voice the breath
is not driven out and dissipated, but the tone is intensified and given
completer resonance within−within the nasal or head cavities, somewhat
within the pharynx and chest. This body of breath, easily held in good control,
by the lower breathing muscles, forms what is called the vocal “support.” It is
a fixed base of control. It is a fundamental condition, and is to be steadily
maintained in all the varied operations of the voice.
Since this fundamental control of voice is so important, breathing exercises
are often prescribed for regular practice. Such exercises, when directed by a
thoroughly proficient instructor, may be vocally effective, and beneficial to
health. Unwisely practiced…
 39: CINDERELLA
by Charles Perrault

Once there was a gentleman who married for his second wife the proudest and
most haughty woman that was ever seen. She had by a former husband two
daughters of her own humor, who were, indeed, exactly like her in all things.
He had likewise, by another wife, a young daughter, but of unparalleled
goodness and sweetness of temper, which she took from her mother, who was
the best creature in the world.
No sooner were the ceremonies of the wedding over but the mother-in-law
began to show herself in her true colors. She could not bear the good qualities
of this pretty girl, and the less because they made her own daughters appear
the more odious. She employed her in meanest work of the house: she
scoured the dishes, tables, etc., and scrubbed madam’s chamber and those of
misses, her daughters; she lay up in a sorry garret, upon a wretched straw bed,
while her sisters lay in fine rooms, with floors all inlaid, upon beds of the very
newest fashion, and where they had looking-glasses so large that they might
see themselves at their full length from head to foot.
The poor girl bore all patiently and dared not tell her father, who would have
rattled her off; for his wife governed him entirely. When she had done her
work she used to go into the chimney-corner and sit down among cinders and
ashes, which made her commonly be called a cinder maid; but the youngest,
who was not so rude and uncivil as the eldest, called her Cinderella. However,
Cinderella, notwithstanding her mean apparel, was a hundred times
handsomer than her sisters, though they were always dressed very richly.
It happened that the King’s son gave a ball and invited all persons, of fashion
to it. Our young misses were also invited, for they cut a very grand figure
among the quality. They were mightily delighted at this invitation, and
wonderfully busy in choosing out such gowns, petticoats, and head-clothes as
might become them. This was a new trouble to Cinderella, for it was she who
ironed her sisters’ linen and plaited their ruffles. They talked all day long of
nothing but how they should be dressed.
“For my part,” said the eldest, “I will wear my red velvet suit with French
trimming.”
“And I,” said the youngest, “shall have my usual petticoat; but then, to make
amends for that, I will put on my gold-flowered manteau and my diamond
stomacher, which is far from being the most ordinary one in the world.”
They sent for the best tire-woman they could get to make up their headdresses
and adjust their double pinners, and they had their red brushes and patches
from Mademoiselle de la Poche.
Cinderella was likewise called up to them to be consulted in all these matters,
for she had excellent notions and advised them always for the best, nay, and
offered her services to dress their heads, which they were very willing she
should do. As she was doing this they said to her:
“Cinderella, would you not be glad to go to the ball?”
“Alas!” said she, “you only jeer me. It is not for such as I am to go thither.”
“Thou art in the right of it,” replied they. “It would make the people laugh to
see a cinder wench at a ball.”
Anyone but Cinderella would have dressed their heads awry, but she was very
good and dressed them perfectly well. They were almost two days without
eating, so much they were transported with joy…
 40: THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
by Washington Irving

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of
the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient
Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened
sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies
a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but
which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This
name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the
adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger
about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for
the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic.
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or
rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the
whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull
one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a
woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform
tranquility.
I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a
grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered
into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the
roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was
prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a
retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising
than this little valley.
From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its
inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this
sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW,
and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the
neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the
land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was
bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement;
others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his
powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick
Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some
witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing
them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous
beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights,
and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with
local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors
glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the
nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her
gambols.
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to
be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a
figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a
Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in…
 41: THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SCHOOL
by Laura Lee Hope

“Mamma, how much longer have we got to ride?” asked Nan Bobbsey,
turning in her seat in the railroad car, to look at her parents, who sat behind
her.
“Are you getting tired?” asked Nan’s brother Bert. “If you are I’ll sit next to
the window, and watch the telegraph poles and trees go by. Maybe that’s what
tires you, Nan,” he added, and his father smiled, for he saw that Bert had two
thoughts for himself, and one for his sister.
“No, I’m not tired of the scenery,” answered the brown-haired and brown
eyed girl, “but you may sit next the window, Bert, if you like.”
“Thanks!” he exclaimed as he scrambled over to the place his sister gave up.
“Are you tired, dearie?” asked Mrs. Bobbsey, leaning forward and smoothing
out her daughter’s hair with her hand. “If you would like to sit with me and
put your head in my lap, papa can go to another seat and -”
“Oh, no, mamma, I’m not as tired as that,” and Nan laughed. “I was just
wondering how soon we’d be home.”
“I’d rather be back at the seashore,” said Bert, not turning his gaze from the
window, for the train was passing along some fields just then, and in one a
boy was driving home some cows to be milked, as evening was coming on.
Bert was wondering if one of the cows might not chase the boy. Bert didn’t
really want to see the boy hurt by a cow, of course, but he thought that if the
cow was going to take after the boy, anyhow, he might just as well see it. But
the cows were very well-behaved, and went along slowly.
“Yes, the seashore was nice,” murmured Nan, as she leaned her head back on
the cushioned seat, “but I’m glad to be going home again. I want to see some
of the girls, and -”
“Yes, and I’ll be looking for some of the boys, too,” put in Bert. “But school
will soon begin, and that’s no fun!”
Mr. and Mrs. Bobbsey smiled at each other, and Mr. Bobbsey, taking out a
timetable, looked to see how much longer they would be on the train.
“It’s about an hour yet,” he said to Nan, and she sighed. Really she was more
tired than she cared to let her mother know.
Just ahead of the two Bobbsey children were another set of them. I say “set”
for the Bobbsey children came “in sets.”
There were two pairs of twins, Bert and Nan, nearly nine years of age, and
Flossie and Freddie, almost five. And, whereas the two older children were
rather tall and slim, with dark brown hair and eyes, the littler twins were short
and fat, and had light hair and blue eyes. The two pairs of twins were quite a
contrast, and many persons stopped to look at them as they passed along the
street together.
“No, sir,” went on Bert musingly, “school’s no fun, and it starts about a week
after we get home. No chance to have a good time!”
“We’ve had fun all summer,” replied his sister. “I rather like school.”
“Mamma, are we going to school this year?” asked Flossie, as she looked
back with a quick turning of her head that set her yellow curls to dancing.
“If we are, I’m going to sit with Flossie - can’t I?” asked Freddie, kneeling in
the seat so that he could face back to his father and mother.
Indeed, his request was not strange, since the two younger twins were always
together even more so than their brother and sister.
“Yes, I think you and Freddie will start school regularly this term,” said Mrs.
Bobbsey, “and, if it can be arranged, you may sit together…
 42: THE BOBBSEY TWINS AT SNOW LODGE
by Laura Lee Hope

“Will Snap pull us, do you think, Freddie?” asked little Flossie Bobbsey, as
she anxiously looked at her small brother, who was fastening a big, shaggy
dog to his sled by means of a home-made harness. “Do you think he’ll give us
a good ride?”
“Sure he will, Flossie,” answered Freddie with an air of wisdom. “I explained
it all to him, and I’ve tried him a little bit. He pulled fine, and you won’t be
much heavier. I’ll have the harness all fixed in a minute, and then we’ll have a
grand ride.”
“Do you think Snap will be strong enough to pull both of us?” asked the little
girl.
“Of course he will!” exclaimed Freddie firmly. “He’s as good as an Eskimo
dog, and we saw some pictures of them pulling sleds bigger than ours.”
“That’s so,” admitted Flossie. “Well, hurry up, please, Freddie ‘cause I’m cold
standing here, and I want to get under the blankets on the sled and have a nice
ride.”
“I’ll hurry all right, Flossie. You go up there by Snap’s head and pat him.
Then he’ll stand stiller, and I can fix the harness on him quicker.”
Flossie, with a shake of her light curls, and a stamp of her little feet to rid
them of the snow from the drift in which she had been standing, went closer
to the fine-looking and intelligent dog, who did not seem to mind being all
tied up with ropes and leather straps to Freddie’s sled.
“Good old Snap!” exclaimed Flossie, patting his head. “You’re going to give
Freddie and me a fine ride; aren’t you, old fellow?”
Snap barked and wagged his tail violently.
“Hey! Stop that!” cried Freddie. “He’s flopping his tail right in my face!” the
little boy added. “I can’t see to fasten this strap. Hold his tail, Flossie.”
Snap, hearing the voice of his young master−one of his two masters by the
way−wagged his tail harder than ever. Freddie made a grab for it, but missed.
Flossie, seeing this, laughed and Snap, thinking it was a great joke, leaped
about and barked with delight. He sprang out of the harness, which was only
partly fastened on, and began leaping about in the snow. Finally he stood up
on his hind legs and marched about, for Snap was a trick dog, and had once
belonged to a circus.
“There now! Look at that!” cried Freddie. “He’s spoiled everything! We’ll
never get him hitched up now.”
“It−it wasn’t my fault,” said Flossie, a tear or two coming into her eyes.
“I know it wasn’t, Flossie,” replied Freddie, speaking more quietly. “It’s
always just that way with Snap when he gets excited. Come here!” he called
to the dog, “and let me harness you. Come here Snap!”
The dog was well enough trained so that he knew when the time for fun was
over and when he had to settle down. Still wagging his tail joyously, however,
Snap came up to Freddie, who started over again the work of harnessing the
animal to the sled.
“I guess you’d better stand at his tail instead of at his head,” said Freddie. “So
when he wags it you can grab it, Flossie, and hold it still. Then it won’t slap
me in the face, and I can see what I’m doing. Hold his tail, Flossie.”
“Then he can’t wag it,” objected the little girl.
“I know he can’t. I don’t want him to.”
“But it may make him angry.”
“Snap never gets mad; do you, Snap?” asked Freddie, and the dog’s bark
seemed to say “No, never!”
So Flossie held the dog’s tail, while Freddie put on the harness again. This
time he succeeded in getting…
 43: THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN THE COUNTRY
by Laura Lee Hope

“There goes the bell! It’s the letter carrier! Let me answer!” Freddie
exclaimed.
“Oh, let me! It’s my turn this week!” cried Flossie.
“But I see a blue envelope. That’s from Aunt Sarah!” the brother cried.
Meanwhile both children, Freddie and Flossie, were making all possible
efforts to reach the front door, which Freddie finally did by jumping over the
little divan that stood in the way, it being sweeping day.
“I beat you,” laughed the boy, while his sister stood back, acknowledging
defeat.
“Well, Dinah had everything in the way and anyhow, maybe it was your turn.
Mother is in the sewing room, I guess!” Flossie concluded, and so the two
started in search of the mother, with the welcome letter from Aunt Sarah tight
in Freddie’s chubby fist.
Freddie and Flossie were the younger of the two pairs of twins that belonged
to the Bobbsey family. The little ones were four years old, both with light
curls framing pretty dimpled faces, and both being just fat enough to be good-
natured. The other twins, Nan and Bert, were eight years old, dark and
handsome, and as like as “two peas” the neighbors used to say. Some people
thought it strange there should be two pairs of twins in one house, but Nan
said it was just like four- leaf clovers, that always grow in little patches by
themselves.
This morning the letter from Aunt Sarah, always a welcome happening, was
especially joyous.
“Do read it out loud,” pleaded Flossie, when the blue envelope had been
opened in the sewing room by Mrs. Bobbsey.
“When can we go?” broke in Freddie, at a single hint that the missive
contained an invitation to visit Meadow Brook, the home of Aunt Sarah in the
country.
“Now be patient, children,” the mother told them. “I’ll read the invitation in
just a minute,” and she kept her eyes fastened on the blue paper in a way that
even to Freddie and Flossie meant something very interesting.
“Aunt Sarah wants to know first how we all are.”
“Oh, we’re all well,” Freddie interrupted, showing some impatience.
“Do listen, Freddie, or we won’t hear,” Flossie begged him, tugging at his
elbow.
“Then she says,” continued the mother, “that this is a beautiful summer at
Meadow Brook.”
“Course it is. We know that!” broke in Freddie again.
“Freddie!” pleaded Flossie.
“And she asks how we would like to visit them this summer.” “Fine, like it
−lovely!” the little boy almost shouted, losing track of words in his delight.
“Tell her we’ll come, mamma,” went on Freddie. “Do send a letter quick
won’t you, mamma ?”
“Freddie Bobbsey!” spoke up Flossie, in a little girl’s way of showing
indignation. “If you would only keep quiet we could hear about going, but
−you always stop mamma. Please, mamma, read the rest,” and the golden
head was pressed against the mother’s shoulder from the arm of the big
rocking chair.
“Well, I was only just saying−” pouted Freddie.
“Now listen, dear.” The mother went on once more reading from the letter:
“Aunt Sarah says Cousin Harry can hardly wait until vacation time to see
Bert, and she also says, ‘For myself I cannot wait to see the babies. I want to
hear Freddie laugh, and I want to hear Flossie “say her piece,” as she did last
Christmas, then I just want to hug them both to death, and so does their Uncle
Daniel.’”
“Good!−goody!” broke in the irrepressible Freddie again. “I’ll just hug Aunt
Sarah…
 44: THE BOBBSEY TWINS IN WASHINGTON
by Laura Lee Hope

“This is ‘most as much fun as we had on Blueberry Island, or when we went

to Florida on the deep, blue sea, isn’t it, Bert?” asked Nan Bobbsey, as she sat
on the porch and fanned herself with her hat. She and her brother had been
running around the house, playing a new game, and Nan was warm.
“Yes, it’s fun all right,” agreed Bert. “But I liked the deep, blue sea better−or
even Blueberry Island,” and off came his hat to cool his flushed face, for,
though it was late in September, the day was warm.
“But we couldn’t stay on the island, always,” went on Nan. “We have to go to
school, daddy says!”
“Don’t speak about it!” begged Bert. “I don’t want to go to school for a long,
long time, and not then!”
“Have we got to go to school?” asked a little light-haired and blue-eyed girl,
as she ran up the steps, to sink in a heap at the feet of her sister, Nan Bobbsey.
“When do we go?” she went on.
“Oh, not right away, ‘little fat fairy!’” laughed Nan, giving Flossie the name
her father sometimes called her. “School won’t open for two weeks more.”
“Hurray!” cried Bert. “The longer it stays closed the better I like it. But come
on, Nan! Let’s have some more fun. This isn’t like Blueberry Island, sitting
still on a porch!”
“You haven’t sat still more than three minutes, Bert Bobbsey!” cried his sister.
“I can hardly get my breath, you made me run so fast!”
Just then a little boy, who had the same sort of blue eyes and golden hair that
made Flossie such a pretty little girl, came tumbling up the steps with a clatter
and a bang, falling down at Bert’s feet. The older boy caught his small brother
just in time, or there might have been a bumped nose.
“Hi there, Freddie, what’s the matter?” asked Bert, with a laugh. “Is our dog
Snap chasing you, or have you been playing a trick on our cat Snoop?”
“I−I−I’m a−a fireman!” panted Freddie. for he, too, was out of breath from
running. “I’m a fireman, and I−I’ve got to get the engine. There’s a big, big
fire!” and his eyes opened wide and round.
“A big fire−really?” asked Nan quickly.
“Course not! He’s only making believe!” replied Bert.
“Well, I thought maybe he might have seen some boys start a bonfire
somewhere,” explained Nan. “They sometimes do.”
“I know they do,” admitted Bert. “And I hope they don’t start one near
daddy’s lumberyard.”
“There was a fire down in the lumber once!” exclaimed Freddie. He was too
young to have seen it, but he had heard his father and mother talk about the
time Mr. Bobbsey’s lumberyard was nearly burned out. Freddie Bobbsey was
very fond of a toy fire engine he had been given for Christmas, and his father
often called Freddie a “little fireman,” just as Flossie was named a “fairy.”
“Well, if it’s only a make-believe fire we can sit here and cool off,” went on
Nan. “What were you doing, Flossie?” she asked her little sister.
“Oh, I was having a race with our cat Snoop; but I guess I beat, ‘cause Snoop
didn’t get here to the porch before I did.”
“Yes, you won the race all right,” laughed Bert. “But it’s too hot for any more
running games. I wish we were back on the island where we found that boy,
Jack Nelson, and could play we were sailors and could splash in the water.”
“That would be fun!” sighed Nan, as she fanned herself harder than ever with
her hat.
The Bobbsey twins had, a few days before, returned…
 45: THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON A HOUSEBOAT
by Laura Lee Hope

“What are you doing, Freddie?” asked Bert Bobbsey, leaning over to oil the
front wheel of his bicycle, while he glanced at his little brother, who was
tying strings about the neck of a large, handsome dog.
“Making a harness,” answered Freddie, not taking time to look up.
“A harness?” repeated Bert, with a little laugh. “How can you make a harness
out of bits of string?”
“I’m going to have straps, too,” went on Freddie, keeping busily on with his
work. “Flossie has gone in after them. It’s going to be a fine, strong harness.”
“Do you mean you are going to harness up Snap?” asked Bert, and he stood
his bicycle against the side of the house, and came over to where Freddie sat
near the big dog.
“Yes. Snap is going to be my horse,” explained Freddie. “I’m going to hitch
him to my express wagon, and Flossie and I are going to have a ride.”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Bert. “You won’t get much of a ride with THAT harness,”
and he looked at the thin cord which the small boy was winding about the
dog’s neck.
“Why not?” asked Freddie, a little hurt at Bert’s laughter. Freddie, like all
small boys, did not like to be laughed at.
“Why, Snap is so strong that he’ll break that string in no time,” said Bert.
“Besides−”
“Flossie’s gone in for our booty straps, I tell you!” said Freddie. “Then our
harness will be strong enough. I’m only using string for part of it. I wish she’d
hurry up and come out!” and Freddie glanced toward the house. But there was
no sign of his little sister Flossie.
“Maybe she can’t find them,” suggested Bert. “You know what you and
Flossie do with your books and straps, when you come home from school
Friday afternoons−you toss them any old place until Monday morning.”
“I didn’t this time!” said sturdy little Freddie, looking up quickly. “I−I put
‘em−I put ‘em−oh, well, I guess Flossie can find ‘em!” he ended, for trying to
remember where he had left his books was more than he could do this bright,
beautiful, Saturday morning, when there was no school.
“I thought so!” laughed Bert, as he turned to go back to his bicycle, for he
intended to go for a ride, and had just cleaned, and was now oiling, his wheel.
“Well, Flossie can find ‘em, so she can,” went on Freddie, as he held his head
on one side and looked at a knotted string around the neck of Snap, the big
dog.
“I wonder how Snap is going to like it?” asked Bert. “Did you ever hitch him
to your express wagon before, Freddie?”
“Yes. But he couldn’t pull us.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause I only had him tied with strings, and they broke. But I’m going to use
our book straps now, and they’ll hold.”
“Maybe they will−if you can find ‘em−or if Flossie can,” Bert went on with a
laugh.
Freddie said nothing. He was too busy tying more strings about Snap’s neck.
These strings were to serve as reins for the dog-horse. Since Snap would not
keep them in his mouth, as a horse does a bit, they had to go around his neck,
as oxen wear their yokes.
Snap stretched out comfortably on the grass, his big red tongue hanging out of
his mouth. He was panting, and breathing hard, for he and Freddie had had a
romping play in the grass, before quieting down for the horse-game.
“There, Snap!” Freddie exclaimed, after a bit. “Now you’re almost hitched
up. I wish Flossie would hurry up with those straps.”
Freddie Bobbsey stood up to look once more toward…
 46: THE LAND THAT TIME FORGOT
by Edgar Rice Burroughs

It must have been a little after three o’clock in the afternoon that it happened
−the afternoon of June 3rd, 1916. It seems incredible that all that I have
passed through−all those weird and terrifying experiences−should have been
encompassed within so short a span as three brief months. Rather might I
have experienced a cosmic cycle, with all its changes and evolutions for that
which I have seen with my own eyes in this brief interval of time−things that
no other mortal eye had seen before, glimpses of a world past, a world dead, a
world so long dead that even in the lowest Cambrian stratum no trace of it
remains. Fused with the melting inner crust, it has passed forever beyond the
ken of man other than in that lost pocket of the earth whither fate has borne
me and where my doom is sealed. I am here and here must remain.
After reading this far, my interest, which already had been stimulated by the
finding of the manuscript, was approaching the boiling-point. I had come to
Greenland for the summer, on the advice of my physician, and was slowly
being bored to extinction, as I had thoughtlessly neglected to bring sufficient
reading-matter. Being an indifferent fisherman, my enthusiasm for this form
of sport soon waned; yet in the absence of other forms of recreation I was
now risking my life in an entirely inadequate boat off Cape Farewell at the
southernmost extremity of Greenland.
Greenland! As a descriptive appellation, it is a sorry joke−but my story has
nothing to do with Greenland, nothing to do with me; so I shall get through
with the one and the other as rapidly as possible.
The inadequate boat finally arrived at a precarious landing, the natives, waist-
deep in the surf, assisting. I was carried ashore, and while the evening meal
was being prepared, I wandered to and fro along the rocky, shattered shore.
Bits of surf-harried beach clove the worn granite, or whatever the rocks of
Cape Farewell may be composed of, and as I followed the ebbing tide down
one of these soft stretches, I saw the thing. Were one to bump into a Bengal
tiger in the ravine behind the Bimini Baths, one could be no more surprised
than was I to see a perfectly good quart thermos bottle turning and twisting in
the surf of Cape Farewell at the southern extremity of Greenland. I rescued it,
but I was soaked above the knees doing it; and then I sat down in the sand and
opened it, and in the long twilight read the manuscript, neatly written and
tightly folded, which was its contents.
You have read the opening paragraph, and if you are an imaginative idiot like
myself, you will want to read the rest of it; so I shall give it to you here,
omitting quotation marks−which are difficult of remembrance. In two minutes
you will forget me.
My home is in Santa Monica. I am, or was, junior member of my father’s
firm. We are ship-builders. Of recent years we have specialized on
submarines, which we have built for Germany, England, France and the
United States. I know a sub as a mother knows her baby’s face, and have
commanded a score of them on their trial runs. Yet my inclinations were all
toward aviation. I graduated under Curtiss, and after a long siege with my
father obtained his permission to try for the Lafayette Escadrille. As a
stepping-stone I obtained an appointment in the American…
 47: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BUFFALO BILL
by Colonel W. F. Cody

I am about to take the back-trail through the Old West−the West that I knew
and loved. All my life it has been a pleasure to show its beauties, its marvels
and its possibilities to those who, under my guidance, saw it for the first time.
Now, going back over the ground, looking at it through the eyes of memory, it
will be a still greater pleasure to take with me the many readers of this book.
And if, in following me through some of the exciting scenes of the old days,
meeting some of the brave men who made its stirring history, and listening to
my camp-fire tales of the buffalo, the Indian, the stage-coach and the pony-
express, their interest in this vast land of my youth, should be awakened, I
should feel richly repaid.
The Indian, tamed, educated and inspired with a taste for white collars and
moving-pictures, is as numerous as ever, but not so picturesque. On the little
tracts of his great inheritance allotted him by civilization he is working out his
own manifest destiny.
The buffalo has gone. Gone also is the stagecoach whose progress his
pilgrimages often used to interrupt. Gone is the pony express, whose
marvelous efficiency could compete with the wind, but not with the harnessed
lightning flashed over the telegraph wires. Gone are the very bone-gatherers
who laboriously collected the bleaching relics of the great herds that once
dotted the prairies.
But the West of the old times, with its strong characters, its stern battles and
its tremendous stretches of loneliness, can never be blotted from my mind.
Nor can it, I hope, be blotted from the memory of the American people, to
whom it has now become a priceless possession.
It has been my privilege to spend my working years on the frontier. I have
known and served with commanders like Sherman, Sheridan, Miles, Custer
and A.A. Carr−men who would be leaders in any army in any age. I have
known and helped to fight with many of the most notable of the Indian
warriors.
Frontiersmen good and bad, gunmen as well as inspired prophets of the
future, have been my camp companions. Thus, I know the country of which I
am about to write as few men now living have known it.
Recently, in the hope of giving permanent form to the history of the Plains, I
staged many of the Indian battles for the films. Through the courtesy of the
War and Interior Departments I had the help of the soldiers and the Indians.
Now that this work has been done I am again in the saddle and at your service
for what I trust will be a pleasant and perhaps instructive journey over the old
trails. We shall omit the hazards and the hardships, but often we shall leave
the iron roads over which the Pullman rolls and, back in the hills, see the
painted Indians winding up the draws, or watch the more savage Mormon
Danites swoop down on the wagon-train. In my later years I have brought the
West to the East−under a tent. Now I hope to bring the people of the East and
of the New West to the Old West, and possibly here and there to supply new
material for history.
I shall try to vary the journey, for frequent changes of scenes are grateful to
travelers. I shall show you some of the humors as well as the excitements of
the frontier. And our last halting-place will be at sunrise−the sunrise of the
New West, with its waving grain-fields, fenced flocks…
 48: A CONSICE HISTORY OF THE U.S.
by Barnes & Co.

WHO FIRST SETTLED AMERICA?

It was probably first peopled from Asia, the birth-place of man. In what way
this happened, we do not know. Chinese vessels, coasting along the shore
according to the custom of early voyagers, may have been driven by storms to
cross the Pacific Ocean, while the crews were thankful to escape a watery
grave by settling an unknown country or, parties wandering across Behring
Strait in search of adventure, and finding on this side a pleasant land, may
have resolved to make it their home.
AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES
In various parts of the continent, remains are found of the people who settled
the country in prehistoric times. Through the Mississippi valley, from the
Lakes to the Gulf, extends a succession of defensive earthworks.
Similar ruins are found in various other sections of the United States. The
largest forest trees are often found growing upon them. The Indians have no
tradition as to the origin of these structures. They generally crown steep hills,
and consist of embankments, ditches, &c., indicating considerable
acquaintance with military science. At Newark, Ohio, a fortification exists
which covers an area of more than two miles’ square, and has over two miles
of embankment from two to twenty feet high.
Mounds, seemingly constructed as great altars for religious purposes or as
monuments, are also numerous. One, opposite St. Louis, covers eight acres of
ground, and is ninety feet high. There are said to be 10,000 of these mounds
in Ohio alone.
A peculiar kind of earthwork has the outline of gigantic men or animals. An
embankment in Adams County, Ohio, represents very accurately a serpent
1000 feet long. Its body winds with graceful curves, and in its wide-extended
jaws lies a figure which the animal seems about to swallow. In Mexico and
Peru, still more wonderful remains have been discovered. They consist not
alone of defensive works, altars, and monuments, but of idols, ruined temples,
aqueducts, bridges, and paved roads.
THE MOUND BUILDERS is the name given to the people who erected the
mounds of North America. They seem to have emigrated to Central America,
and there to have developed a high civilization. They built cities, wove cotton,
worked in gold, silver, and copper, labored in the fields, and had regular
governments.
THE INDIANS who were found on this continent east of the Mississippi, by
the first European settlers, did not exceed 200,000 in number. In Mexico,
Peru, and the Indies, however, there was an immense population. The Indians
were the successors of the Mound Builders, and were by far their inferiors in
civilization. We know not why the ancient race left, nor whence the Indians
came. It is supposed that the former was driven southward by the savage
tribes from the north.
INDIAN CHARACTERISTICS
Arts and Inventions− The Indian has been well termed the “Red Man of the
Forest.” He built no cities, no ships, no churches, no school-houses. He
constructed only temporary bark wigwams and canoes. He made neither roads
nor bridges, but followed foot-paths through the forest, and swam the streams.
His highest art was expended in a simple bow and arrow.
Progress and Education
He made no advancement, but each son emulated the prowess of his father in
the hunt and the fight. The hunting-ground and the battle-field embraced…
 49: THE PEOPLE THAT TIME FORGOT
by Edgar Rice Burroughs

I am forced to admit that even though I had traveled a long distance to place
Bowen Tyler’s manuscript in the hands of his father, I was still a trifle
skeptical as to its sincerity, since I could not but recall that it had not been
many years since Bowen had been one of the most notorious practical jokers
of his alma mater. The truth was that as I sat in the Tyler library at Santa
Monica I commenced to feel a trifle foolish and to wish that I had merely
forwarded the manuscript by express instead of bearing it personally, for I
confess that I do not enjoy being laughed at. I have a well-developed sense of
humor−when the joke is not on me.
Mr. Tyler, Sr., was expected almost hourly. The last steamer in from Honolulu
had brought information of the date of the expected sailing of his yacht
Toreador, which was now twenty-four hours overdue. Mr. Tyler’s assistant
secretary, who had been left at home, assured me that there was no doubt but
that the Toreador had sailed as promised, since he knew his employer well
enough to be positive that nothing short of an act of God would prevent his
doing what he had planned to do. I was also aware of the fact that the sending
apparatus of the Toreador’s wireless equipment was sealed, and that it would
only be used in event of dire necessity. There was, therefore, nothing to do but
wait, and we waited.
We discussed the manuscript and hazarded guesses concerning it and the
strange events it narrated. The torpedoing of the liner upon which Bowen J.
Tyler, Jr., had taken passage for France to join the American Ambulance was
a well-known fact, and I had further substantiated by wire to the New York
office of the owners, that a Miss La Rue had been booked for passage.
Further, neither she nor Bowen had been mentioned among the list of
survivors; nor had the body of either of them been recovered.
Their rescue by the English tug was entirely probable; the capture of the
enemy U-33 by the tug’s crew was not beyond the range of possibility; and
their adventures during the perilous cruise which the treachery and deceit of
Benson extended until they found themselves in the waters of the far South
Pacific with depleted stores and poisoned water-casks, while bordering upon
the fantastic, appeared logical enough as narrated, event by event, in the
manuscript.
Caprona has always been considered a more or less mythical land, though it is
vouched for by an eminent navigator of the eighteenth century; but Bowen’s
narrative made it seem very real, however many miles of trackless ocean lay
between us and it. Yes, the narrative had us guessing. We were agreed that it
was most improbable; but neither of us could say that anything which it
contained was beyond the range of possibility. The weird flora and fauna of
Caspak were as possible under the thick, warm atmospheric conditions of the
super-heated crater as they were in the Mesozoic era under almost exactly
similar conditions, which were then probably world-wide. The assistant
secretary had heard of Caproni and his discoveries, but admitted that he never
had taken much stock in the one nor the other. We were agreed that the one
statement most difficult of explanation was that which reported the entire
absence of human young among the various tribes which Tyler had had
intercourse…
 50: THE THIEF
by Fyodor Dostoevsky

One morning, just as I was about to leave for my place of employment,

Agrafena (my cook, laundress, and housekeeper all in one person) entered my
room, and, to my great astonishment, started a conversation.
She was a quiet, simple-minded woman, who during the whole six years of
her stay with me had never spoken more than two or three words daily, and
that in reference to my dinner−at least, I had never heard her.
“I have come to you, sir,” she suddenly began, “about the renting out of the
little spare room.”
“What spare room?”
“The one that is near the kitchen, of course; which should it be?”
“Why?”
“Why do people generally take lodgers? Because.”
“But who will take it?”
“Who will take it! A lodger, of course! Who should take it?”
“But there is hardly room in there, mother mine, for a bed; it will be too
cramped. How can one live in it?”
“But why live in it! He only wants a place to sleep in; he will live on the
window-seat.”
“What window-seat?”
“How is that? What window-seat? As if you did not know! The one in the
hall. He will sit on it and sew, or do something else. But maybe he will sit on
a chair; he has a chair of his own−and a table also, and everything.”
“But who is he?”
“A nice, worldly-wise man. I will cook for him and will charge him only three
rubles in silver a month for room and board “
At last, after long endeavor, I found out that some elderly man had talked
Agrafena into taking him into the kitchen as lodger. When Agrafena once got
a thing into her head that thing had to be; otherwise I knew I would have no
peace. On those occasions when things did go against her wishes, she
immediately fell into a sort of brooding, became exceedingly melancholy, and
continued in that state for two or three weeks. During this time the food was
invariably spoiled, the linen was missing, the floors unscrubbed; in a word, a
lot of unpleasant things happened. I had long ago become aware of the fact
that this woman of very few words was incapable of forming a decision, or of
coming to any conclusion based on her own thoughts; and yet when it
happened that by some means there had formed in her weak brain a sort of
idea or wish to undertake a thing, to refuse her permission to carry out this
idea or wish meant simply to kill her morally for some time. And so, acting in
the sole interest of my peace of mind, I immediately agreed to this new
proposition of hers.
“Has he at least the necessary papers, a passport, or anything of the kind?”
“How then? Of course he has. A fine man like him−who has seen the world
−He promised to pay three rubles a month.”
On the very next day the new lodger appeared in my modest bachelor
quarters; but I did not feel annoyed in the least−on the contrary, in a way I
was glad of it. I live a very solitary, hermit-like life. I have almost no
acquaintance and seldom go out. Having led the existence of a moor-cock for
ten years, I was naturally used to solitude. But ten, fifteen years or more of
the same seclusion in company with a person like Agrafena, and in the same
bachelor dwelling, was indeed a joyless prospect. Therefore, the presence of
another quiet, unobtrusive man in the house was, under these circumstances, a
real blessing.
Agrafena had spoken the truth: the lodger was a man who had seen much in
his life. From his passport it appeared…
 51: HOW TO DO IT
by Edward Everett Hale

HOW TO TALK
Here is a letter from my nephew Tom, a spirited, modest boy of seventeen,
who is a student of the Scientific School at New Limerick. He is at home with
his mother for an eight weeks’ vacation; and the very first evening of his
return he went round with her to the Vandermeyers’, where was a little
gathering of some thirty or forty people, most of them, as he confesses, his
old schoolmates, a few of them older than himself. But poor Tom was
mortified, and thinks he was disgraced, because he did not have anything to
say, could not say it if he had, and, in short, because he does not talk well. He
hates talking parties, he says, and never means to go to one again.
Here is also a letter from Esther W., who may speak for herself, and the two
may well enough be put upon the same file, and be answered together:
“Please listen patiently to a confession. I have what seems to me very natural,
a strong desire to be liked by those whom I meet around me in society of my
own age; but, unfortunately, when with them my manners have often been
unnatural and constrained, and I have found myself thinking of myself, and
what others were thinking of me, instead of entering into the enjoyment of the
moment as others did. I seem to have naturally very little independence, and
to be very much afraid of other people, and of their opinion. And when, as
you might naturally infer from the above, I often have not been successful in
gaining the favor of those around me, then I have spent a great deal of time in
the selfish indulgence of ‘the blues,’ and in philosophizing on the why and the
wherefore of some persons’ agreeableness and popularity and others’
unpopularity.”
There, is not that a good letter from a nice girl?
Will you please to see, dear Tom, and you also, dear Esther, that both of you,
after the fashion of your age, are confounding the method with the thing. You
see how charmingly Mrs. Pallas sits back and goes on with her crochet while
Dr. Volta talks to her; and then, at the right moment, she says just the right
thing, and makes him laugh, or makes him cry, or makes him defend himself,
or makes him explain himself; and you think that there is a particular knack or
rule for doing this so glibly, or that she has a particular genius for it which
you are not born to, and therefore you both propose hermitages for yourselves
because you cannot do as she does. Dear children, it would be a very stupid
world if anybody in it did just as anybody else does. There is no particular
method about talking or talking well. It is one of the things in life which
“does itself.” And the only reason why you do not talk as easily and quite as
pleasantly as Mrs. Pallas is, that you are thinking of the method, and coming
to me to inquire how to do that which ought to do itself perfectly, simply, and
without any rules at all.
It is just as foolish girls at school think that there is some particular method of
drawing with which they shall succeed, while with all other methods they
have failed. “No, I can’t draw in india-ink [pronounced in-jink], ‘n’ I can’t do
anything with crayons, I hate crayons, ‘n’ I can’t draw pencil-drawings, ‘n’ I
won’t try anymore; but if this tiresome old Mr. Apelles was not so obstinate,
‘n’ would only let me try the ‘monochromatic drawing,’ I know I…
 52: CLEOPATRA
by Jacob Abbott

The story of Cleopatra is a story of crime. It is a narrative of the course and

the consequences of unlawful love. In her strange and romantic history, we
see this passion portrayed with the most complete and graphic fidelity in all
its influences and effects; its uncontrollable impulses, its intoxicating joys, its
reckless and mad career, and the dreadful remorse and ultimate despair and
ruin in which it always and inevitably ends.
Cleopatra was by birth an Egyptian; by ancestry and descent she was a Greek.
Thus, while Alexandria and the Delta of the Nile formed the scene of the most
important events and incidents of her history, it was the blood of Macedon
which flowed in her veins. Her character and action are marked by the genius,
the courage, the originality, and the impulsiveness pertaining to the stock
from which she sprung. The events of her history, on the other hand, and the
peculiar character of her adventures, her sufferings, and her sins, were
determined by the circumstances with which she was surrounded, and the
influences which were brought to bear upon her in the soft and voluptuous
clime where the scenes of her early life were laid.
Egypt has always been considered as physically the most remarkable country
on the globe. It is a long and narrow valley of verdure and fruitfulness,
completely insulated from the rest of the habitable world. It is more
completely insulated, in fact, than any literal island could be, inasmuch as
deserts are more impassable than seas. The very existence of Egypt is a most
extraordinary phenomenon. If we could but soar with the wings of an eagle
into the air, and look down upon the scene, so as to observe the operation of
that grand and yet simple process by which this long and wonderful valley,
teeming so profusely with animal and vegetable life, has been formed, and is
annually revivified and renewed, in the midst of surrounding wastes of
silence, desolation, and death, we should gaze upon it with never-ceasing
admiration and pleasure. We have not the wings of the eagle, but the
generalizations of science furnish us with a sort of substitute for them.
The long series of patient, careful, and sagacious observations, which have
been continued now for two thousand years, bring us results, by means of
which, through our powers of mental conception, we may take a
comprehensive survey of the whole scene, analogous, in some respects, to
that which direct and actual vision would afford us, if we could look down
upon it from the eagle’s point of view. It is, however, somewhat humiliating
to our pride of intellect to reflect that long-continued philosophical
investigations and learned scientific research are, in such a case as this, after
all, in some sense, only a sort of substitute for wings. A human mind
connected with a pair of eagle’s wings would have solved the mystery of
Egypt in a week; whereas science, philosophy, and research, confined to the
surface of the ground, have been occupied for twenty centuries in
accomplishing the undertaking.
It is found at last that both the existence of Egypt itself, and its strange
insulation in the midst of boundless tracts of dry and barren sand, depend
upon certain remarkable results of the general laws of rain. The water which
is taken up by the atmosphere from the…
 53: THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
by Mark Twain

It was in 1590−winter. Austria was far away from the world, and asleep; it
was still the Middle Ages in Austria, and promised to remain so forever.
Some even set it away back centuries upon centuries and said that by the
mental and spiritual clock it was still the Age of Belief in Austria. But they
meant it as a compliment, not a slur, and it was so taken, and we were all
proud of it. I remember it well, although I was only a boy; and I remember,
too, the pleasure it gave me.
Yes, Austria was far from the world, and asleep, and our village was in the
middle of that sleep, being in the middle of Austria. It drowsed in peace in the
deep privacy of a hilly and woodsy solitude where news from the world
hardly ever came to disturb its dreams, and was infinitely content. At its front
flowed the tranquil river, its surface painted with cloud-forms and the
reflections of drifting arks and stone-boats; behind it rose the woody steeps to
the base of the lofty precipice; from the top of the precipice frowned a vast
castle, its long stretch of towers and bastions mailed in vines; beyond the
river, a league to the left, was a tumbled expanse of forest-clothed hills cloven
by winding gorges where the sun never penetrated; and to the right a precipice
overlooked the river, and between it and the hills just spoken of lay a far-
reaching plain dotted with little homesteads nested among orchards and shade
trees.
The whole region for leagues around was the hereditary property of a prince,
whose servants kept the castle always in perfect condition for occupancy, but
neither he nor his family came there oftener than once in five years. When
they came it was as if the lord of the world had arrived, and had brought all
the glories of its kingdoms along; and when they went they left a calm behind
which was like the deep sleep which follows an orgy.
Eseldorf was a paradise for us boys. We were not overmuch pestered with
schooling. Mainly we were trained to be good Christians; to revere the Virgin,
the Church, and the saints above everything. Beyond these matters we were
not required to know much; and, in fact, not allowed to. Knowledge was not
good for the common people, and could make them discontented with the lot
which God had appointed for them, and God would not endure
discontentment with His plans. We had two priests. One of them, Father
Adolf, was a very zealous and strenuous priest, much considered.
There may have been better priests, in some ways, than Father Adolf, but
there was never one in our commune who was held in more solemn and awful
respect. This was because he had absolutely no fear of the Devil. He was the
only Christian I have ever known of whom that could be truly said. People
stood in deep dread of him on that account; for they thought that there must
be something supernatural about him, else he could not be so bold and so
confident. All men speak in bitter disapproval of the Devil, but they do it
reverently, not flippantly; but Father Adolf’s way was very different; he called
him by every name he could lay his tongue to, and it made everyone shudder
that heard him; and often he would even speak of him scornfully and
scoffingly; then the people crossed themselves and went quickly out of his
presence, fearing that something fearful might happen.
Father…
 54: KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS
by Sir James Knowles

The Prophecies of Merlin, and the Birth of Arthur

King Vortigern the usurper sat upon his throne in London, when, suddenly,
upon a certain day, ran in a breathless messenger, and cried aloud−
“Arise, Lord King, for the enemy is come; even Ambrosius and Uther, upon
whose throne thou sittest−and full twenty thousand with them−and they have
sworn by a great oath, Lord, to slay thee, ere this year be done; and even now
they march towards thee as the north wind of winter for bitterness and haste.”
At those words Vortigern’s face grew white as ashes, and, rising in confusion
and disorder, he sent for all the best artificers and craftsmen and mechanics,
and commanded them vehemently to go and build him straightway in the
furthest west of his lands a great and strong castle, where he might fly for
refuge and escape the vengeance of his master’s sons−“and, moreover,” cried
he, “let the work be done within a hundred days from now, or I will surely
spare no life amongst you all.”
Then all the host of craftsmen, fearing for their lives, found out a proper site
whereon to build the tower, and eagerly began to lay in the foundations. But
no sooner were the walls raised up above the ground than all their work was
overwhelmed and broken down by night invisibly, no man perceiving how, or
by whom, or what. And the same thing happening again, and yet again, all the
workmen, full of terror, sought out the king, and threw themselves upon their
faces before him, beseeching him to interfere and help them or to deliver
them from their dreadful work.
Filled with mixed rage and fear, the king called for the astrologers and
wizards, and took counsel with them what these things might be, and how to
overcome them. The wizards worked their spells and incantations, and in the
end declared that nothing but the blood of a youth born without mortal father,
smeared on the foundations of the castle, could avail to make it stand.
Messengers were therefore sent forthwith through all the land to find, if it
were possible, such a child. And, as some of them went down a certain village
street, they saw a band of lads fighting and quarrelling, and heard them shout
at one−“Avaunt, thou imp!−avaunt! Son of no mortal man! go, find thy father,
and leave us in peace.”
At that the messengers looked steadfastly on the lad, and asked who he was.
One said his name was Merlin; another, that his birth and parentage were
known by no man; a third, that the foul fiend alone was his father. Hearing the
things, the officers seized Merlin, and carried him before the king by force.
But no sooner was he brought to him than he asked in a loud voice, for what
cause he was thus dragged there?
“My magicians,” answered Vortigern, “told me to seek out a man that had no
human father, and to sprinkle my castle with his blood, that it may stand.”
“Order those magicians,” said Merlin, “to come before me, and I will convict
them of a lie.”
The king was astonished at his words, but commanded the magicians to come
and sit down before Merlin, who cried to them−
“Because ye know not what it is that hinders the foundation of the castle, ye
have advised my blood for a cement to it, as if that would avail; but tell me
now rather what there is below that ground, for something there is surely
underneath that will not suffer the tower…
 55: THE METAMORPHOSIS
by Franz Kafka

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he

discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug.
He lay on his armor-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his
brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. From this
height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay
in place. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his
circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
“What’s happened to me,” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a proper
room for a human being, only somewhat too small, lay quietly between the
four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of
sample cloth goods was spread out (Samsa was a traveling salesman) hung
the picture which he had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago
and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman with a fur hat and a
fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur
muff into which her entire forearm disappeared.
Gregor’s glance then turned to the window. The dreary weather (the rain
drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge) made him quite
melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all
this foolishness,” he thought. But this was entirely impractical, for he was
used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he couldn’t get
himself into this position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right
side, he always rolled again onto his back. He must have tried it a hundred
times, closing his eyes, so that he would not have to see the wriggling legs,
and gave up only when he began to feel a light, dull pain in his side which he
had never felt before.
“O God,” he thought, “what a demanding job I’ve chosen! Day in, day out on
the road. The stresses of trade are much greater than the work going on at
head office, and, in addition to that, I have to deal with the problems of
traveling, the worries about train connections, irregular bad food, temporary
and constantly changing human relationships which never come from the
heart. To hell with it all!” He felt a slight itching on the top of his abdomen.
He slowly pushed himself on his back closer to the bed post so that he could
lift his head more easily, found the itchy part, which was entirely covered
with small white spots (he did not know what to make of them), and wanted
to feel the place with a leg. But he retracted it immediately, for the contact felt
like a cold shower all over him.
He slid back again into his earlier position. “This getting up early,” he
thought, “makes a man quite idiotic. A man must have his sleep. Other
traveling salesmen live like harem women. For instance, when I come back to
the inn during the course of the morning to write up the necessary orders,
these gentlemen are just sitting down to breakfast. If I were to try that with
my boss, I’d be thrown out on the spot. Still, who knows whether that
mightn’t be really good for me. If I didn’t hold back for my parents’ sake, I
would’ve quit ages ago. I would’ve gone to the boss and told him just what I
think from the bottom of my heart. He would’ve fallen right off his desk!
How weird it is to sit up at the…
 56: SONS AND LOVERS
by D. H. Lawrence

“The Bottoms” succeeded to “Hell Row”. Hell Row was a block of thatched,
bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There lived
the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away. The brook ran
under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small mines, whose coal was
drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin.
And all over the countryside were these same pits, some of which had been
worked in the time of Charles II, the few colliers and the donkeys burrowing
down like ants into the earth, making queer mounds and little black places
among the corn-fields and the meadows. And the cottages of these coal-
miners, in blocks and pairs here and there, together with odd farms and homes
of the stockingers, straying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood.
Then, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place, gin-pits were
elbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and iron field of
Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waite and Co.
appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formally opened
the company’s first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood Forest.
About this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old had
acquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansed
away.
Carston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, down the
valleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, until
soon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstone
among the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of the Carthusians
and past Robin Hood’s Well, down to Spinney Park, then on to Minton, a
large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands of the
valleyside to Bunker’s Hill, branching off there, and running north to
Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of Derbyshire: six
mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by a loop of fine chain, the
railway.
To accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. built the
Squares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood, and
then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected the Bottoms.
The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners’ dwellings, two rows of three,
like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in a block. This
double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp slope from
Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, on the slow climb
of the valley towards Selby.
The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk all
round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in the shadow
of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny top block; seeing
neat front windows, little porches, little privet hedges, and dormer windows
for the attics. But that was outside; that was the view on to the uninhabited
parlours of all the colliers’ wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the
back of the house, facing inward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby
back garden, and then at the ash-pits. And between the rows, between the
long lines of ash-pits, went the alley, where the children played and the
women gossiped and the men smoked. So, the actual conditions…
 57: THE GUNS OF BULL RUN
by Joseph A. Altsheler

It would soon be Christmas and Harry Kenton, at his desk in the Pendleton
Academy, saw the snow falling heavily outside. The school stood on the skirt
of the town, and the forest came down to the edge of the playing field. The
great trees, oak and ash and elm, were clothed in white, and they stood out a
vast and glittering tracery against the somber sky.
The desk was of the old kind, intended for two, and Harry’s comrade in it was
his cousin, Dick Mason, of his own years and size. They would graduate in
June, and both were large and powerful for their age. There was a strong
family resemblance and yet a difference. Harry’s face was the more sensitive
and at times the blood leaped like quicksilver in his veins. Dick’s features
indicated a quieter and more stubborn temper. They were equal favorites with
teachers and pupils.
Dick’s eyes followed Harry’s, and he, too, looked at the falling snow and the
white forest. Both were thinking of Christmas and the holiday season so near
at hand. It was a rich section of Kentucky, and they were the sons of
prosperous parents. The snow was fitting at such a time, and many joyous
hours would be passed before they returned to school.
The clouds darkened and the snow fell faster. A wind rose and drove it against
the panes. The boys heard the blast roaring outside and the comfort of the
warm room was heightened by the contrast. Harry’s eyes turned reluctantly
back to his Tacitus and the customs and manners of the ancient Germans. The
curriculum of the Pendleton Academy was simple, like most others at that
time. After the primary grades it consisted chiefly of the classics and
mathematics. Harry led in the classics and Dick in the mathematics.
Bob Turner, the free colored man, who was janitor of the academy, brought in
the morning mail, a dozen letters and three or four newspapers, gave it to Dr.
Russell and withdrew on silent feet.
The Doctor was principal of Pendleton Academy, and he always presided
over the room in which sat the larger boys, nearly fifty in number. His desk
and chair were on a low dais and he sat facing the pupils. He was a large man,
with a ruddy face, and thick hair as white as the snow that was falling outside.
He had been a teacher fifty years, and three generations in Pendleton owed to
him most of the learning that is obtained from books. He opened his letters
one by one, and read them slowly.
Harry moved far away into the German forest with old Tacitus. He was proud
of his Latin and he did not mean to lose his place as first in the class. The
other boys also were absorbed in their books. It was seldom that all were
studious at the same time, but this was one of the rare moments. There was no
shuffling of feet, and fifty heads were bent over their desks.
It was a full half hour before Harry looked up from his Tacitus. His first
glance was at the window. The snow was driving hard, and the forest had
become a white blur. He looked next at the Doctor and he saw that the ruddy
face had turned white. The old man was gazing intently at an open letter in his
hand. Two or three others had fallen to the floor. He read the letter again,
folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket. Then he broke the wrapper on one
of the newspapers and rapidly read its columns. The whiteness of his face
deepened into…
 58: DAISY MILLER
by Henry James

At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable

hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the
business of the place, which, as many travelers will remember, is seated upon
the edge of a remarkably blue lake−a lake that it behooves every tourist to
visit. The shore of the lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of
this order, of every category, from the “grand hotel” of the newest fashion,
with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from
its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an elder day, with its name inscribed in
German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall and an awkward
summerhouse in the angle of the garden. One of the hotels at Vevey, however,
is famous, even classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart
neighbors by an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the
month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said,
indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an
American watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vision,
an echo, of Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither and thither of
“stylish” young girls, a rustling of muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in
the morning hours, a sound of high-pitched voices at all times. You receive an
impression of these things at the excellent inn of the “Trois Couronnes” and
are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the
“Trois Couronnes,” it must be added, there are other features that are much at
variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like
secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish
boys walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the
sunny crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of
Chillon.
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were
uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or three years ago, sat
in the garden of the “Trois Couronnes,” looking about him, rather idly, at
some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer
morning, and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things, they
must have seemed to him charming. He had come from Geneva the day
before by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel
−Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had
a headache−his aunt had almost always a headache−and now she was shut up
in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about. He
was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they
usually said that he was at Geneva “studying.” When his enemies spoke of
him, they said−but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable
fellow, and universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain
persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much
time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there
−a foreign lady−a person older than himself. Very few Americans−indeed, I
think none−had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular
stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment…
 59: SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him
mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates
the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene
Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold,
precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect
reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he
would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer
passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the
observer−excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But
for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and
finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might
throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a
crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than
a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to
him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable
memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each
other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centered interests which
rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own
establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who
loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our
lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from
week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and
the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply
attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and
extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing
up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his
summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of
the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of
the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the
reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however,
which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of
my former friend and companion.
One night−it was on the twentieth of March, 1888−I was returning from a
journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way
led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which
must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark
incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see
Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.
His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare
figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the
room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped
behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and
manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his
drug-created dreams and was hot upon…
 60: THE STORY OF ELECTRICITY
by John Munro

A schoolboy who rubs a stick of sealing-wax on the sleeve of his jacket, then
holds it over dusty shreds or bits of straw to see them fly up and cling to the
wax, repeats without knowing it the fundamental experiment of electricity. In
rubbing the wax on his coat he has electrified it, and the dry dust or bits of
wool are attracted to it by reason of a mysterious process which is called
“induction.”
Electricity, like fire, was probably discovered by some primeval savage.
According to Humboldt, the Indians of the Orinoco sometimes amuse
themselves by rubbing certain beans to make them attract wisps of the wild
cotton, and the custom is doubtless very old. Certainly the ancient Greeks
knew that a piece of amber had when rubbed the property of attracting light
bodies. Thales of Miletus, wisest of the Seven Sages, and father of Greek
philosophy, explained this curious effect by the presence of a “soul” in the
amber, whatever he meant by that. Thales flourished 600 years before the
Christian era, while Croesus reigned in Lydia, and Cyrus the Great, in Persia,
when the renowned Solon gave his laws to Athens, and Necos, King of Egypt,
made war on Josiah, King of Judah, and after defeating him at Megiddo,
dedicated the corslet he had worn during the battle to Apollo Didymaeus in
the temple of Branchidas, near Miletus.
Amber, the fossil resin of a pine tree, was found in Sicily, the shores of the
Baltic, and other parts of Europe. It was a precious stone then as now, and an
article of trade with the Phoenicians, those early merchants of the
Mediterranean. The attractive power might enhance the value of the gem in
the eyes of the superstitious ancients, but they do not seem to have
investigated it, and beyond the speculation of Thales, they have told us
nothing more about it.
Towards the end of the sixteenth century Dr. Gilbert of Colchester, physician
to Queen Elizabeth, made this property the subject of experiment, and showed
that, far from being peculiar to amber, it was possessed by sulphur, wax,
glass, and many other bodies which he called electrics, from the Greek word
elektron, signifying amber. This great discovery was the starting-point of the
modern science of electricity. That feeble and mysterious force which had
been the wonder of the simple and the amusement of the vain could not be
slighted any longer as a curious freak of nature, but assuredly none dreamt
that a day was dawning in which it would transform the world.
Otto von Guericke, burgomaster of Magdeburg, was the first to invent a
machine for exciting the electric power in larger quantities by simply turning
a ball of sulphur between the bare hands. Improved by Sir Isaac Newton and
others, who employed glass rubbed with silk, it created sparks several inches
long. The ordinary frictional machine as now made is illustrated in figure i,
where P is a disc of plate glass mounted on a spindle and turned by hand.
Rubbers of silk R, smeared with an amalgam of mercury and tin, to increase
their efficiency, press the rim of the plate between them as it revolves, and a
brass conductor C, insulated on glass posts, is fitted with points like the teeth
of a comb, which, as the electrified surface of the plate passes by, collect the
electricity and charge the conductor with positive electricity. Machines…
 61: A ROOM WITH A VIEW
by E. M. Forster

The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all.
She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which
here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh,
Lucy!”
“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the
Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two
rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white
bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people;
at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind
the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev.
Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall.
“Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly
believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s
being so tired.”
“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down
her fork.
“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter
would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all.
Oh, it is a shame!”
“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that
you shouldn’t have a view.”
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me: of
course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room
in the front−”
“You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were
paid by Lucy’s mother−a piece of generosity to which she made many a
tactful allusion.
“No, no. You must have it.”
“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”
“She would never forgive me.”
The ladies’ voices grew animated, and−if the sad truth be owned−a little
peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled.
Some of their neighbors interchanged glances, and one of them−one of the ill-
bred people whom one does meet abroad−leant forward over the table and
actually intruded into their argument. He said:
“I have a view, I have a view.”
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally, at a pension people looked them over
for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would
“do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before
she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven
face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it
was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not
stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract
her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got
into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and
then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”
“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”
“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.
“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have
yours. We’ll change.”
The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-
comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and
said “Thank you very much indeed; that is…
 62: HERO TALES OF AMERICAN HISTORY
by Henry Cabot Lodge

WASHINGTON
The brilliant historian of the English people, John Richard Green, has written
of Washington, that “no nobler figure ever stood in the fore-front of a nation’s
life.” In any book which undertakes to tell, no matter how slightly, the story
of some of the heroic deeds of American history, that noble figure must
always stand in the fore-front. But to sketch the life of Washington even in the
barest outline is to write the history of the events which made the United
States independent and gave birth to the American nation. Even to give a list
of what he did, to name his battles and recount his acts as president, would be
beyond the limit and the scope of this book. Yet it is always possible to recall
the man and to consider what he was and what he meant for us and for
mankind He is worthy the study and the remembrance of all men, and to
Americans he is at once a great glory of their past and an inspiration and an
assurance of their future.
To understand Washington at all we must first strip off all the myths which
have gathered about him. We must cast aside into the dust-heaps all the
wretched inventions of the cherry-tree variety, which were fastened upon him
nearly seventy years after his birth. We must look at him as he looked at life
and the facts about him, without any illusion or deception, and no man in
history can better stand such a scrutiny.
Born of a distinguished family in the days when the American colonies were
still ruled by an aristocracy, Washington started with all that good birth and
tradition could give. Beyond this, however, he had little. His family was poor,
his mother was left early a widow, and he was forced after a very limited
education to go out into the world to fight for himself He had strong within
him the adventurous spirit of his race. He became a surveyor, and in the
pursuit of this profession plunged into the wilderness, where he soon grew to
be an expert hunter and backwoodsman. Even as a boy the gravity of his
character and his mental and physical vigor commended him to those about
him, and responsibility and military command were put in his hands at an age
when most young men are just leaving college. As the times grew threatening
on the frontier, he was sent on a perilous mission to the Indians, in which,
after passing through many hardships and dangers, he achieved success.
When the troubles came with France it was by the soldiers under his
command that the first shots were fired in the war which was to determine
whether the North American continent should be French or English. In his
earliest expedition he was defeated by the enemy. Later he was with
Braddock, and it was he who tried, to rally the broken English army on the
stricken field near Fort Duquesne. On that day of surprise and slaughter he
displayed not only cool courage but the reckless daring which was one of his
chief characteristics. He so exposed himself that bullets passed through his
coat and hat, and the Indians and the French who tried to bring him down
thought he bore a charmed life. He afterwards served with distinction all
through the French war, and when peace came he went back to the estate
which he had inherited from his brother, the most admired man in Virginia.
At that time he married, and during the ensuing years he lived…
 63: THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON
told by Mary Godolphin

TOLD IN ONE-SYLLABLE WORDS

When one has a good tale to tell, he should try to be brief, and not say more
than he can help ere he makes a fair start; so I shall not say a word of what
took place on board the ship till we had been six days in a storm. The barque
had gone far out of her true course, and no one on board knew where we
were. The masts lay in splints on the deck, a leak in the side of the ship let
more in than the crew could pump out, and each one felt that ere long he
would find a grave in the deep sea, which sent its spray from side to side of
what was now but a mere hulk.
“Come, boys,” said I to my four sons, who were with me, “God can save us if
it please Him so to do; but, if this is to be our last hour, let us bow to His will
−we shall at least go down side by side.”
My dear wife could not hide the tears that fell down her cheeks as I thus
spoke to my sons, but she was calm, and knelt down to pray, while the boys
clung round her as if they thought she could help them.
Just then we heard a cry of “Land! land!” felt a shock, and it was clear that we
had struck on a rock, for we heard a loud cry from one of the men, “We are
lost! Launch the boat; try for your lives!”
I went at once on deck, and found that all the boats had been let down, and
that the last of the crew had just left the ship. I cried out for the men to come
back and take us with them, but it was in vain.
I then thought that our last chance was gone. Still, as I felt the ship did not
sink, I went to the stern, and found, to my joy, that she was held up by a piece
of rock on each side, and made fast like a wedge. At the same time, I saw
some trace of land, which lay to the south, and this made me go back with
some hope that we had still a faint chance.
As soon as I got down stairs I took my wife by the hand, and said, “Be of
good cheer, we are at least safe for some time, and if the wind should veer
round, we may yet reach the land that lies but a short way off.”
I said this to calm the fears of my wife and sons, and it did so far more than I
had a right to hope.
“Let us now take some food,” said my wife. “We are sure to need it, for this
will no doubt be a night to try our strength.”
My wife got some food for her boys, which we were glad to see them eat,
poor as it was; but we could not share their meal. Three out of the four were
put to bed in their berths, and soon went to sleep; but Fritz, who was our first
child, would not leave us. He said, like a good son, that he would try to be of
some use, and think what could be done.
“If we could but find some cork,” said Fritz to me in a low tone, “we might
make floats. You and I will not need them, for we can swim, but the rest will
want some such means to keep them up.”
“A good thought,” said I. “Let us try to find what things there are in the ship
that we can thus make use of.”
We soon found some casks and ropes, and with these we made a kind of float
for each of the three boys, and then my wife made one for her own use. This
done, we got some knives, string, and such things as we could make fast to
our belts. We did not fail to look for and find a flint and steel, and the box in
which the burnt rags were kept, for these were at that time in use as the means
to strike a light.
Fritz, who was now well-nigh worn out, lay down on his…
 64: READING MADE EASY
by John L. Huelshof

BREATHE PURE AIR

Some boys were playing hide-and-seek one day, when one of their number
thought it would be good sport to hide little Robert in a large empty trunk. He
did so and then turned the key in the lock. The little fellow in the chest was
very quiet indeed, and they almost forgot about him. After some time they
thought of him and someone went to the trunk and asked: “Hello, Robert. Do
you want to come out now?” No answer came. They opened the trunk and
found poor little Robert nearly dead. The doctor had to be called, and he
worked long and hard to restore the poor boy to health.
The air which we breathe out is not fit to be breathed in again. We soon use
up, in this way, all the pure air about us. So we must have a fresh supply. As
soon as Robert had breathed in all the good air that was in the trunk, there was
nothing left but poisoned air. If fresh air had not been given to him by
opening the trunk, he could not have lived three minutes longer.
Nothing is so needful to health as good, pure air. Whether you are in the
schoolroom or in the house, remember this. Bad air is so much poison, and
the more we breathe it the worse it gets. The poison is carbonic acid, and to
breathe it long is certain death.
Not many years ago, during a storm at sea, a stupid sea-captain ordered his
passengers to go below in the hold of the vessel. Then he covered up the hold,
so that no fresh air could enter. When the storm was over he opened the hold,
and found that seventy human beings had died for want of pure air.
Through his gross ignorance of the laws of life, he had done all this mischief.
Remember what I say: insist on having good air; for impure air, though it may
not always kill you, is always bad for your health.
COFFEE
Coffee is made from the berries of a tree called the coffee plant, or coffee tree.
This tree grows in some of the hot countries of the world, as Brazil, Cuba,
Arabia, and Java. The best coffee comes from Arabia. But most of the coffee
that is used in this country comes from Brazil.
When first known, the coffee tree was a wild shrub growing among the hills
of Caffa, in the northeastern part of Africa. But when people learned what a
pleasant drink could be made from its berries, they began to take it into other
countries, where they cultivated it with much care.
There is an old story told of a shepherd who, it is said, was the first to use this
drink. He noticed that after his goats had fed on the leaves of a certain tree
−the coffee plant−they were always very lively and wakeful. So he took some
of the leaves and berries of the plant, and boiling them in water, he made a
drink for himself. He found it so pleasant to the taste that he told some of his
neighbors about it. They tried it and were as much pleased as himself. And so,
little by little, the drink came, after a while, into common use.
The coffee plant is a beautiful little tree, growing sometimes to the height of
twenty feet. It has smooth, dark leaves, long and pointed. It has pretty, white
blossoms, which grow in thick clusters close to the branches. Its fruit looks a
little like a cherry; and within it are the coffee berries, two in each cherry.
When ripe, the red fruit turns to a deep purple and is sweet to the taste. In
Arabia the fruit is allowed to fall on mats placed under the…
 65: THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO
by Carl Marx & Friedrich Engels

A specter is haunting Europe−the specter of Communism. All the Powers of

old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this specter: Pope and
Czar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies.
Where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as Communistic by
its opponents in power? Where is the Opposition that has not hurled back the
branding reproach of Communism, against the more advanced opposition
parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?
Two things result from this fact.
I. Communism is already acknowledged by all European Powers to be itself a
Power.
II. It is high time that Communists should openly, in the face of the whole
world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery
tale of the Specter of Communism with a Manifesto of the party itself.
To this end, Communists of various nationalities have assembled in London,
and sketched the following Manifesto, to be published in the English, French,
German, Italian, Flemish and Danish languages.
I. BOURGEOIS AND PROLETARIANS
The history of all hitherto existing societies is the history of class struggles.
Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and
journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition
to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a
fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary re-constitution of society
at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.
In the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated
arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold gradation of social
rank. In ancient Rome we have patricians, knights, plebeians, slaves; in the
Middle Ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices,
serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations.
The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal
society has not done away with class antagonisms. It has but established new
classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the
old ones. Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this
distinctive feature: it has simplified the class antagonisms. Society as a whole
is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great
classes, directly facing each other: Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.
From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the
earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie
were developed.
The discovery of America, the rounding of the Cape, opened up fresh ground
for the rising bourgeoisie. The East-Indian and Chinese markets, the
colonization of America, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of
exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to
industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary
element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development.
The feudal system of industry, under which industrial production was
monopolized by closed guilds, now no longer sufficed for the growing wants
of the new markets. The manufacturing system took its place. The guild-
masters were pushed on one side by the manufacturing middle class; division
of labor…
 66: A CONNECTICUT YANKEE
by Mark Twain

I am an American. I was born and reared in Hartford, in the State of

Connecticut−anyway, just over the river, in the country. So I am a Yankee of
the Yankees−and practical; yes, and nearly barren of sentiment, I suppose−or
poetry, in other words. My father was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse
doctor, and I was both, along at first. Then I went over to the great arms
factory and learned my real trade; learned all there was to it; learned to make
everything: guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, all sorts of labor-saving
machinery. Why, I could make anything a body wanted−anything in the
world, it didn’t make any difference what; and if there wasn’t any quick new-
fangled way to make a thing, I could invent one−and do it as easy as rolling
off a log. I became head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under
me.
Well, a man like that is a man that is full of fight−that goes without saying.
With a couple of thousand rough men under one, one has plenty of that sort of
amusement. I had, anyway. At last I met my match, and I got my dose. It was
during a misunderstanding conducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to
call Hercules. He laid me out with a crusher alongside the head that made
everything crack, and seemed to spring every joint in my skull and made it
overlap its neighbor. Then the world went out in darkness, and I didn’t feel
anything more, and didn’t know anything at all−at least for a while.
When I came to again, I was sitting under an oak tree, on the grass, with a
whole beautiful and broad country landscape all to myself−nearly. Not
entirely; for there was a fellow on a horse, looking down at me−a fellow fresh
out of a picture-book. He was in old-time iron armor from head to heel, with a
helmet on his head the shape of a nail-keg with slits in it; and he had a shield,
and a sword, and a prodigious spear; and his horse had armor on, too, and a
steel horn projecting from his forehead, and gorgeous red and green silk
trappings that hung down all around him like a bed-quilt, nearly to the
ground.
“Fair sir, will ye just?” said this fellow.
“Will I which?”
“Will ye try a passage of arms for land or lady or for−”
“What are you giving me?” I said. “Get along back to your circus, or I’ll
report you.”
Now what does this man do but fall back a couple of hundred yards and then
come rushing at me as hard as he could tear, with his nail-keg bent down
nearly to his horse’s neck and his long spear pointed straight ahead. I saw he
meant business, so I was up the tree when he arrived.
He allowed that I was his property, the captive of his spear. There was
argument on his side−and the bulk of the advantage−so I judged it best to
humor him. We fixed up an agreement whereby I was to go with him and he
was not to hurt me. I came down, and we started away, I walking by the side
of his horse. We marched comfortably along, through glades and over brooks
which I could not remember to have seen before−which puzzled me and made
me wonder−and yet we did not come to any circus or sign of a circus. So I
gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded he was from an asylum. But we
never came to an asylum−so I was up a stump, as you may say. I asked him
how far we were from Hartford. He said he had never heard of the place;
which I took to be a lie, but allowed…
 67: COMMON SENSE
by Thomas Paine

Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages, are not YET
sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favor; a long habit of not
thinking a thing WRONG, gives it a superficial appearance of being RIGHT,
and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult
soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason.
As a long and violent abuse of power, is generally the Means of calling the
right of it in question (and in Matters too which might never have been
thought of, had not the Sufferers been aggravated into the inquiry) and as the
King of England hath undertaken in his OWN RIGHT, to support the
Parliament in what he calls THEIRS, and as the good people of this country
are grievously oppressed by the combination, they have an undoubted
privilege to inquire into the pretensions of both, and equally to reject the
usurpation of either.
In the following sheets, the author hath studiously avoided everything which
is personal among ourselves. Compliments as well as censure to individuals
make no part thereof. The wise, and the worthy, need not the triumph of a
pamphlet; and those whose sentiments are injudicious, or unfriendly, will
cease of themselves unless too much pains are bestowed upon their
conversion.
The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Many
circumstances hath, and will arise, which are not local, but universal, and
through which the principles of all Lovers of Mankind are affected, and in the
Event of which, their Affections are interested. The laying a Country desolate
with Fire and Sword, declaring War against the natural rights of all Mankind,
and extirpating the Defenders thereof from the Face of the Earth, is the
Concern of every Man to whom Nature hath given the Power of feeling; of
which Class, regardless of Party Censure, is the AUTHOR.
P.S. The Publication of this new Edition hath been delayed, with a View of
taking notice (had it been necessary) of any Attempt to refute the Doctrine of
Independence: As no Answer hath yet appeared, it is now presumed that none
will, the Time needful for getting such a Performance ready for the Public
being considerably past.
Who the Author of this Production is, is wholly unnecessary to the Public, as
the Object for Attention is the DOCTRINE ITSELF, not the MAN. Yet it may
not be unnecessary to say, that he is unconnected with any Party, and under no
sort of Influence public or private, but the influence of reason and principle.
Philadelphia, February 14, 1776
OF THE ORIGIN AND DESIGN OF GOVERNMENT IN GENERAL.
WITH CONCISE REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION
Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little
or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have
different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our
wickedness; the former promotes our POSITIVELY by uniting our affections,
the latter NEGATIVELY by restraining our vices. The one encourages
intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first a patron, the last a
punisher.
Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but
a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one; for when we suffer, or
are exposed to the same miseries BY A GOVERNMENT, which we might
expect…
 68: HOW TO ACT
by Robert Graham Paris

ARE YOU THE TYPE?

Have you always wanted to act? Do you daydream? Do you have a vivid
imagination? When you were a child, did you like to make believe? When
you are happy, are you very happy? When you are angry, do you get very
angry? When a theatrical performance is funny, do you laugh easily? When it
is sad, do you choke up? Do you have strong desires? At times, do you get
very blue when you are alone? Do you sometimes get very happy when you
are alone? Do you ever get lonely in a large crowd? Do you ever feel
unusually friendly in a large crowd? Do you have FAITH in yourself? If your
answer to most of these questions is YES, there’s a fairly good chance that
your emotional scale is flexible—and potentially broad; that you have some
of the basic material to put into an acting career. You want to know what to do
about it and how to go about doing it. You want to know how to develop for
yourself a dependable set of actor’s tools—and how to use them. How to
develop your natural advantages and how to put them to work for you. How
to become a good craftsman, and how to develop that craftsmanship to a point
of artistry—and make a living while doing it Although directed to actors,
anyone who is ever called upon to “stand up and say a few words” can
profitably adapt this book to his uses. Much of the material vitally concerns
the needs of every singer, entertainer, lecturer, teacher, business or
professional man—everyone, in fact, whoever has to face the public. “All the
world’s a stage….” Let’s find out something about how to act on it—or any
other stage. This is a book about acting, not actors. The incidental use of
names well known on the stage, in motion pictures or television is simply to
underscore a point about acting.
STARDUST IS MADE OF MANY THINGS
Some surprises, a few shocks and many important self-discoveries are in store
for you. By the time you’ve mastered the material in this book you’ll know
your old self better, and you’ll meet a new self that will develop as you go
along. You will be more effective. You will project new power. You will have
a stronger personality. You will gain poise. You will acquire authority. You
will broaden your horizons. You will be more interesting. You will speak
better. You will know how to concentrate. You will be able to think on your
feet. You will add to your natural charm. You will be more attractive. You will
be more feminine if you’re a woman, more masculine if you’re a man. In
other words, you will reach a new peak of sex appeal. You will develop your
character, dependability and perseverance. You will establish and justify new
self-confidence. You will both feel and reveal added vitality. You will find out
that everything about you—your strength and your weakness—can be used to
your advantage. Stardust is made of many things. Tony Curtis started out as a
tousled kid from the Bronx who turned into a glamour boy. From the
superficialities of this second phase, he grew into a forceful actor. Rita
Hayworth was a black-haired, chunky little girl who made a mediocre living
as a dancer, until she gradually developed a new self that won her
international homage as the embodiment of desirable femininity. In 1947,
there was no Rock Hudson. But there was a Roy Fitzgerald, who worked in
his father’s electrical…
 69: EINSTEIN’S THEORY OF RELATIVITY
by Prof. H.A. Lorentz

The total eclipse of the sun of May 29, resulted in a striking confirmation of
the new theory of the universal attractive power of gravitation developed by
Albert Einstein, and thus reinforced the conviction that the defining of this
theory is one of the most important steps ever taken in the domain of natural
science. In response to a request by the editor, I will attempt to contribute
something to its general appreciation in the following lines.
For centuries Newton’s doctrine of the attraction of gravitation has been the
most prominent example of a theory of natural science. Through the
simplicity of its basic idea, an attraction between two bodies proportionate to
their mass and also proportionate to the square of the distance; through the
completeness with which it explained so many of the peculiarities in the
movement of the bodies making up the solar system; and, finally, through its
universal validity, even in the case of the far-distant planetary systems, it
compelled the admiration of all.
But, while the skill of the mathematicians was devoted to making more exact
calculations of the consequences to which it led, no real progress was made in
the science of gravitation. It is true that the inquiry was transferred to the field
of physics, following Cavendish’s success in demonstrating the common
attraction between bodies with which laboratory work can be done, but it
always was evident that natural philosophy had no grip on the universal
power of attraction. While in electric effects an influence exercised by the
matter placed between bodies was speedily observed−the starting-point of a
new and fertile doctrine of electricity−in the case of gravitation not a trace of
an influence exercised by intermediate matter could ever be discovered. It
was, and remained, inaccessible and unchangeable, without any connection,
apparently, with other phenomena of natural philosophy.
Einstein has put an end to this isolation; it is now well established that
gravitation affects not only matter, but also light. Thus strengthened in the
faith that his theory already has inspired, we may assume with him that there
is not a single physical or chemical phenomenon−which does not feel,
although very probably in an unnoticeable degree, the influence of
gravitation, and that, on the other side, the attraction exercised by a body is
limited in the first place by the quantity of matter it contains and also, to some
degree, by motion and by the physical and chemical condition in which it
moves.
It is comprehensible that a person could not have arrived at such a far-
reaching change of view by continuing to follow the old beaten paths, but
only by introducing some sort of new idea. Indeed, Einstein arrived at his
theory through a train of thought of great originality. Let me try to restate it in
concise terms.
THE EARTH AS A MOVING CAR
Everyone knows that a person may be sitting in any kind of a vehicle without
noticing its progress, so long as the movement does not vary in direction or
speed; in a car of a fast express train objects fall in just the same way as in a
coach that is standing still. Only when we look at objects outside the train, or
when the air can enter the car, do we notice indications of the motion. We
may compare the earth with such a moving vehicle…
 70: HISTORY OF JULIUS CAESAR
by Jacob Abbott

There were three great European nations in ancient days, each of which
furnished history with a hero: The Greeks, the Carthaginians, and the
Romans.
Alexander was the hero of the Greeks. He was King of Macedon, a country
lying north of Greece proper. He headed an army of his countrymen, and
made an excursion for conquest and glory into Asia. He made himself master
of all that quarter of the globe, and reigned over it in Babylon, till he brought
himself to an early grave by the excesses into which his boundless prosperity
allured him. His fame rests on his triumphant success in building up for
himself so vast an empire, and the admiration which his career has always
excited among mankind is heightened by the consideration of his youth, and
of the noble and generous impulses which strongly marked his character.
The Carthaginian hero was Hannibal. We class the Carthaginians among the
European nations of antiquity; for, in respect to their origin, their civilization,
and all their commercial and political relations, they belonged to the
European race, though it is true that their capital was on the African side of
the Mediterranean Sea. Hannibal was the great Carthaginian hero. He earned
his fame by the energy and implacableness of his hate. The work of his life
was to keep a vast empire in a state of continual anxiety and terror for fifty
years, so that his claim to greatness and glory rests on the determination, the
perseverance, and the success with which he fulfilled his function of being,
while he lived, the terror of the world.
The Roman hero was Caesar. He was born just one hundred years before the
Christian era. His renown does not depend, like that of Alexander, on foreign
conquests, nor, like that of Hannibal, on the terrible energy of his aggressions
upon foreign foes, but upon his protracted and dreadful contests with, and
ultimate triumphs over, his rivals and competitors at home. When he appeared
upon the stage, the Roman empire already included nearly all of the world
that was worth possessing. There were no more conquests to be made. Caesar
did, indeed, enlarge, in some degree, the boundaries of the empire; but the
main question in his day was, who should possess the power which preceding
conquerors had acquired.
The Roman empire, as it existed in those days, must not be conceived of by
the reader as united together under one compact and consolidated
government. It was, on the other hand, a vast congeries of nations, widely
dissimilar in every respect from each other, speaking various languages, and
having various customs and laws. They were all, however, more or less
dependent upon, and connected with, the great central power. Some of these
countries were provinces, and were governed by officers appointed and sent
out by the authorities at Rome. These governors had to collect the taxes of
their provinces, and also to preside over and direct, in many important
respects, the administration of justice. They had, accordingly, abundant
opportunities to enrich themselves while thus in office, by collecting more
money than they paid over to the government at home, and by taking bribes to
favor the rich man’s cause in court. Thus the more wealthy and prosperous
provinces were objects of great competition among aspirants for office at
Rome…
 71: A CASE OF IDENTITY
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

“My dear fellow.” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in
his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which
the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things
which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that
window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and
peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the
plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working
through generation, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all
fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and
unprofitable.”
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come to
light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in
our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it
must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic
effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police report, where more
stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the
details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter.
Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so.” I said.
“Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody
who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought in
contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here”−I picked up the morning
paper from the ground−“let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first
heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a
column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar
to me. There is. of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent
nothing more crude.”
“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas
separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small
points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other
woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit
of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his
wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination
of the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge
that I have scored over you in your example.”
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the center of the
lid. Its splendor was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I
could not help commenting upon it.
“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little
souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of
the Irene Adler papers.”
“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled
upon his finger.
“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I
served them was of such…
 72: AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CHARLES DARWIN
A German Editor having written to me for an account of the development of
my mind and character with some sketch of my autobiography, I have thought
that the attempt would amuse me, and might possibly interest my children or
their children. I know that it would have interested me greatly to have read
even so short and dull a sketch of the mind of my grandfather, written by
himself, and what he thought and did, and how he worked. I have attempted
to write the following account of myself, as if I were a dead man in another
world looking back at my own life. Nor have I found this difficult, for life is
nearly over with me. I have taken no pains about my style of writing.
I was born at Shrewsbury on February 12th, 1809, and my earliest
recollection goes back only to when I was a few months over four years old,
when we went to near Abergele for sea-bathing, and I recollect some events
and places there with some little distinctness.
My mother died in July 1817, when I was a little over eight years old, and it is
odd that I can remember hardly anything about her except her death-bed, her
black velvet gown, and her curiously constructed work-table. In the spring of
this same year I was sent to a day-school in Shrewsbury, where I stayed a
year. I have been told that I was much slower in learning than my younger
sister Catherine, and I believe that I was in many ways a naughty boy.
By the time I went to this day-school (Kept by Rev. G. Case, minister of the
Unitarian Chapel in the High Street. Mrs. Darwin was a Unitarian and
attended Mr. Case’s chapel, and my father as a little boy went there with his
elder sisters. But both he and his brother were christened and intended to
belong to the Church of England; and after his early boyhood he seems
usually to have gone to church and not to Mr. Case’s. It appears (“St. James’
Gazette”, Dec. 15, 1883) that a mural tablet has been erected to his memory in
the chapel, which is now known as the ‘Free Christian Church.’) my taste for
natural history, and more especially for collecting, was well developed. I tried
to make out the names of plants (Rev. W.A. Leighton, who was a
schoolfellow of my father’s at Mr. Case’s school, remembers his bringing a
flower to school and saying that his mother had taught him how by looking at
the inside of the blossom the name of the plant could be discovered. Mr.
Leighton goes on, “This greatly roused my attention and curiosity, and I
enquired of him repeatedly how this could be done?” But his lesson was
naturally enough not transmissible.−F.D.), and collected all sorts of things,
shells, seals, franks, coins, and minerals. The passion for collecting which
leads a man to be a systematic naturalist, a virtuoso, or a miser, was very
strong in me, and was clearly innate, as none of my sisters or brother ever had
this taste.
One little event during this year has fixed itself very firmly in my mind, and I
hope that it has done so from my conscience having been afterwards sorely
troubled by it; it is curious as showing that apparently I was interested at this
early age in the variability of plants! I told another little boy (I believe it was
Leighton, who afterwards became a well-known lichenologist and botanist),
that I could produce variously colored polyanthuses and primroses by
watering…
 73: A GHOST STORY
by Mark Twain

I took a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose upper
stories had been wholly unoccupied for years, until I came. The place had
long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence. I seemed
groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night
I climbed up to my quarters. For the first time in my life a superstitious dread
came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible
cobweb swung its slazy woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one
who had encountered a phantom.
I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mold and the
darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with
a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone
times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the
mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all
time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie
softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds
outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes
diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the street
subsided, until the hurrying foot-steps of the last belated straggler died away
in the distance and left no sound behind.
The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and
undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do,
as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal
to break. I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the
faint creaking of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep.
I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself
awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was still. All but my own
heart−I could hear it beat. Presently the bedclothes began to slip away slowly
toward the foot of the bed, as if someone were pulling them! I could not stir; I
could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast
was uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over my
head. I waited, listened, waited. Once more that steady pull began, and once
more I lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked
again. At last I roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place
and held them with a strong grip. I waited. By and by I felt a faint tug, and
took a fresh grip. The tug strengthened to a steady strain−it grew stronger and
stronger. My hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. I
groaned. An answering groan came from the foot of the bed! Beaded drops of
sweat stood upon my forehead. I was more dead than alive. Presently I heard
a heavy footstep in my room−the step of an elephant, it seemed to me−it was
not like anything human. But it was moving FROM me−there was relief in
that. I heard it approach the door−pass out without moving bolt or lock−and
wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till
they creaked again as it passed−and then silence reigned once more.
When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, “This is a dream−simply a
hideous dream.” And so I lay thinking it…
 74: A KINDERGARTEN STORY BOOK
by Jane L. Hoxie

“Help me out! Help me out, little Ludwig!” cried a great red fox, caught fast
in a trap in the woods. “Help me out, and it shall be well with you!” Now
Ludwig loved the wild creatures of the forest; he was their friend and
playmate, their sorrows were his own; so, stepping to the trap, he pressed the
spring, and the fox was free. When, however, the poor beast tried to limp
away, so great was the pain in his foot that he was forced to lie down instead.
Seeing this, Ludwig ran to a spring nearby and, dipping his handkerchief into
the clear cool water, tenderly bound up the bruised and swollen foot.
“You have been very kind, my little friend,” said the fox. “You have saved my
life. If you have a wish, tell me what it is and it shall be granted.”
“Oh, as to that,” said Ludwig, “I wish my little pail here were full of berries,
for my sister and I are very hungry.” Hardly had he spoken when his pail,
which before had been quite empty, became full to the very brim with great
delicious strawberries. Ludwig ran swiftly home to the little brown hut where
he and his sister lived quite alone on the edge of the forest.
“See, sister dear,” he called, “what a fine breakfast I have brought.”
“I am glad, brother,” said Marleen, “for I am very hungry; but where did you
find so many berries in so short a time, and such delicious ones, too?”
Then Ludwig told his sister all about the fox, and how he had wished for the
berries.
“Was I not wise, dear sister, to get such a good breakfast for us with so little
trouble?”
But Marleen was not satisfied, and cried:
“Foolish boy! It was no ordinary fox whose foot you pulled out of the trap. If
he could fill your pail with berries, just for the asking, he could do far greater
things. You should have wished for something better. Go back into the forest,
find the fox, and tell him that our cupboard must be always full of food
whenever we are hungry.”
“Be satisfied, dear sister,” said Ludwig. “We are quite happy as we are. When
we are again hungry I will go and find food in the forest as I have always
done before.”
“No, no, I will not be satisfied!” said Marleen. “You must do as I tell you;”
and she gave her brother no peace until he went again into the forest.
“How now, little brother!” said the fox, when he saw Ludwig coming toward
him through the trees; “is it not well with you?”
“Alas, my sister is not satisfied with the pail of berries,” said Ludwig.
“What would she, little brother?”
“That our cupboard should be always full whenever we are hungry.”
“Go, little brother, it shall be as she wishes,” said the fox.
Now, after this, whenever brother or sister were hungry, they found plenty of
food just to their liking in the cupboard; and, as Ludwig had no longer to seek
for nuts and berries in the forest, he could play all day long with his sister, and
they were very happy because they were never separated. But after a time
Marleen refused to play, and sat moping on the door stone. “Why are you so
troubled, sister? Come, let us play in the sunshine,” said the boy.
“Why should I be happy?” said Marleen. “Why should I play? We have no
toys, only ugly sticks and stones for playthings. If you will go to the fox and
get a beautiful doll, then I will play.”
“Be satisfied, dear sister,” said Ludwig. “We are quite happy as we are.”
“No, no, I will not…
 75: THE LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
by Henry Ketcham

At the beginning of the twentieth century there is, strictly speaking, no

frontier to the United States. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the
larger part of the country was frontier. In any portion of the country today, in
the remotest villages and hamlets, on the enormous farms of the Dakotas or
the vast ranches of California, one is certain to find some, if not many, of the
modern appliances of civilization such as were not dreamed of one hundred
years ago. Aladdin himself could not have commanded the glowing terms to
write the prospectus of the closing years of the nineteenth century. So, too, it
requires an extraordinary effort of the imagination to conceive of the
condition of things in the opening years of that century.
The first quarter of the century closed with the year 1825. At that date Lincoln
was nearly seventeen years old. The deepest impressions of life are apt to be
received very early, and it is certain that the influences which are felt previous
to seventeen years of age have much to do with the formation of the character.
If, then, we go back to the period named, we can tell with sufficient accuracy
what were the circumstances of Lincoln’s early life. Though we cannot
precisely tell what he had, we can confidently name many things, things
which in this day we class as the necessities of life, which he had to do
without, for the simple reason that they had not then been invented or
discovered.
In the first place, we must bear in mind that he lived in the woods. The West
of that day was not wild in the sense of being wicked, criminal, ruffian.
Morally, and possibly intellectually, the people of that region would compare
with the rest of the country of that day or of this day. There was little
schooling and no literary training. But the woodsman has an education of his
own. The region was wild in the sense that it was almost uninhabited and
untilled. The forests, extending from the mountains in the East to the prairies
in the West, were almost unbroken and were the abode of wild birds and wild
beasts. Bears, deer, wild-cats, raccoons, wild turkeys, wild pigeons, wild
ducks and similar creatures abounded on every hand.
Consider now the sparseness of the population. Kentucky has an area of
40,000 square miles. One year after Lincoln’s birth, the total population,
white and colored, was 406,511, or an average of ten persons−say less than
two families−to the square mile. Indiana has an area of 36,350 square miles.
In 1810 its total population was 24,520, or an average of one person to one
and one-half square miles; in 1820 it contained 147,173 inhabitants, or about
four to the square mile; in 1825 the population was about 245,000, or less
than seven to the square mile.
The capital city, Indianapolis, which is today of surpassing beauty, was not
built nor thought of when the boy Lincoln moved into the State.
Illinois, with its more than 56,000 square miles of territory, harbored in 1810
only 12,282 people; in 1820, only 55,211, or less than one to the square mile;
while in 1825 its population had grown a trifle over 100,000 or less than two
to the square mile.
It will thus be seen that up to his youth, Lincoln dwelt only in the wildest of
the wild woods, where the animals from the chipmunk to the bear were much
more numerous…
 76: STORIES OF INVENTORS
by Russell Doubleday

HOW GUGLIELMO MARCONI TELEGRAPHS WITHOUT WIRES

A nineteen-year-old boy, just a quiet, unobtrusive young fellow, who talked
little but thought much, saw in the discovery of an older scientist the means of
producing a revolutionizing invention by which nations could talk to nations
without the use of wires or tangible connection, no matter how far apart they
might be or by what they might be separated. The possibilities of Guglielmo
(William) Marconi’s invention are just beginning to be realized, and what it
has already accomplished would seem too wonderful to be true if the people
of these marvelous times were not almost surfeited with wonders.
It is of the boy and man Marconi that this chapter will tell, and through him
the story of his invention, for the personality, the talents, and the character of
the inventor made wireless telegraphy possible.
It was an article in an electrical journal describing the properties of the
“Hertzian waves” that suggested to young Marconi the possibility of sending
messages from one place to another without wires. Many men doubtless read
the same article, but all except the young Italian lacked the training, the power
of thought, and the imagination, first to foresee the great things that could be
accomplished through this discovery, and then to study out the mechanical
problem, and finally to steadfastly push the work through to practical
usefulness.
It would seem that Marconi was not the kind of boy to produce a
revolutionizing invention, for he was not in the least spectacular, but, on the
contrary, almost shy, and lacking in the aggressive enthusiasm that is
supposed to mark the successful inventor; quiet determination was a strong
characteristic of the young Italian, and a studious habit which had much to do
with the great results accomplished by him at so early an age.
He was well equipped to grapple with the mighty problem which he had been
the first to conceive, since from early boyhood he had made electricity his
chief study, and a comfortable income saved him from the grinding struggle
for bare existence that many inventors have had to endure. Although born in
Bologna (in 1874) and bearing an Italian name, Marconi is half Irish, his
mother being a native of Britain. Having been educated in Bologna, Florence,
and Leghorn, Italy’s schools may rightly claim to have had great influence in
the shaping of his career. Certain it is, in any case, that he was well educated,
especially in his chosen branch.
Marconi, like many other inventors, did not discover the means by which the
end was accomplished; he used the discovery of other men, and turned their
impractical theories and inventions to practical uses, and, in addition,
invented many theories of his own. The man who does old things in a new
way, or makes new uses of old inventions, is the one who achieves great
things. And so it was the reading of the discovery of Hertz that started the boy
on the train of thought and the series of experiments that ended with practical,
everyday telegraphy without the use of wires. To begin with, it is necessary to
give some idea of the medium that carries the wireless messages.
It is known that all matter, even the most compact and solid of substances, is
permeated by what is called ether, and that the vibrations that make…
 77: AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANDREW
CARNEGIE
If the story of any man’s life, truly told, must be interesting, as some sage
avers, those of my relatives and immediate friends who have insisted upon
having an account of mine may not be unduly disappointed with this result. I
may console myself with the assurance that such a story must interest at least
a certain number of people who have known me, and that knowledge will
encourage me to proceed.
A book of this kind, written years ago by my friend, Judge Mellon, of
Pittsburgh, gave me so much pleasure that I am inclined to agree with the
wise one whose opinion I have given above; for, certainly, the story which the
Judge told has proved a source of infinite satisfaction to his friends, and must
continue to influence succeeding generations of his family to live life well.
And not only this; to some beyond his immediate circle it holds rank with
their favorite authors. The book contains one essential feature of value−it
reveals the man. It was written without any intention of attracting public
notice, being designed only for his family. In like manner I intend to tell my
story, not as one posturing before the public, but as in the midst of my own
people and friends, tried and true, to whom I can speak with the utmost
freedom, feeling that even trifling incidents may not be wholly destitute of
interest for them.
To begin, then, I was born in Dunfermline, in the attic of the small one-story
house, corner of Moodie Street and Priory Lane, on the 25th of November,
1835, and, as the saying is, “of poor but honest parents, of good kith and kin.”
Dunfermline had long been noted as the center of the damask trade in
Scotland. My father, William Carnegie, was a damask weaver, the son of
Andrew Carnegie after whom I was named.
My Grandfather Carnegie was well known throughout the district for his wit
and humor, his genial nature and irrepressible spirits. He was head of the
lively ones of his day, and known far and near as the chief of their joyous club
−“Patiemuir College.” Upon my return to Dunfermline, after an absence of
fourteen years, I remember being approached by an old man who had been
told that I was the grandson of the “Professor,” my grandfather’s title among
his cronies. He was the very picture of palsied eld;
“His nose and chin they threatened ither.”
As he tottered across the room toward me and laid his trembling hand upon
my head he said: “And ye are the grandson o’ Andra Carnegie! Eh, mon, I
ha’e seen the day when your grandfaither and I could ha’e hallooed ony
reasonable man oot o’ his jidgment.”
Several other old people of Dunfermline told me stories of my grandfather.
Here is one of them:
One Hogmanay night an old wifey, quite a character in the village, being
surprised by a disguised face suddenly thrust in at the window, looked up and
after a moment’s pause exclaimed, “Oh, it’s jist that daft callant Andra
Carnegie.” She was right; my grandfather at seventy-five was out frightening
his old lady friends, disguised like other frolicking youngsters.
I think my optimistic nature, my ability to shed trouble and to laugh through
life, making “all my ducks swans,” as friends say I do, must have been
inherited from this delightful old masquerading grandfather whose name I am
proud to bear. A sunny disposition is worth more than fortune. Young
people…
 78: MARK TWAIN
by Archibald Henderson

American literature, indeed I might say American life, can exhibit no example
of supreme success from the humblest beginnings, so signal as the example of
Mark Twain. Lincoln became President of the United States, as did Grant and
Johnson. But assassination began for Lincoln an apotheosis which has gone to
deplorable lengths of hero-worship and adulation. Grant was one of the great
failures in American public life; and Johnson, brilliant but unstable, narrowly
escaped impeachment. Mark Twain enjoys the unique distinction of
exhibiting a progressive development, a deepening and broadening of forces,
a ripening of intellectual and spiritual powers from the beginning to the end of
his career. From the standpoint of the man of letters, the evolution of Mark
Twain from a journeyman printer to a great author, from a merry-andrew to a
world-humorist, from a river-pilot to a trustworthy navigator on the vast and
uncharted seas of human experience, may be taken as symbolic of the
romance of American life.
With a sort of mock−pride, Clemens referred at times to the ancestral glories
of his house−the judge who condemned Charles I., and all those other
notables, of Dutch and English breeds, who shed luster upon the name of
Clemens. Yet he claimed that he had not examined into these traditions,
chiefly because “I was so busy polishing up this end of the line and trying to
make it showy.” His mother, a “Lambton with a p,” of Kentucky, married
John Marshall Clemens, of Virginia, a man of determination and force, in
Lexington, in 1823; but neither was endowed with means, and their life was
of the simplest. From Jamestown, in the mountain solitudes of East
Tennessee, they removed in 1829, much as Judge Hawkins is said to have
done in ‘The Gilded Age’, settling at Florida, Missouri. Here was born, on
November 30, 1835, a few months after their arrival, Samuel Langhorne
Clemens. Long afterwards he stated that he had increased by one per cent. the
population of this village of one hundred inhabitants, thereby doing more than
the best man in history had ever done for any other town.
Although weak and sickly, the child did not suffer from the hard life, and
survived two other children, Margaret and Benjamin. At different times his
life was in danger, the local doctor always coming to the rescue. He once
asked his mother, after she had reached old age, if she hadn’t been uneasy
about him. She admitted she had been uneasy about him the whole time. But
when he inquired further if she was afraid he would not live, she answered
after a reflective pause−as if thinking out the facts−that she had been afraid he
would!
His sister Pamela afterwards became the mother of Samuel E. Moffett, the
writer; and his brother Orion, ten years his senior, afterwards was intimately
associated with him in life and found a place in his writings.
In 1839, John Marshall Clemens tired of the unpromising life of Florida and
removed to Hannibal, Missouri. He was a stern, unbending man, a lawyer by
profession, a merchant by vocation; after his removal to Hannibal he became
a Justice of the Peace, an office he filled with all the dignity of a local
autocrat. His forum was a “dingy” office, furnished with “a dry-goods box,
three or four rude stools, and a puncheon bench.” The solemnity of his
manner…
 79: IN THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR
by Samuel E. Lowe

“I cannot carry your message, Sir Knight.”

Quiet-spoken was the lad, though his heart held a moment’s fear as, scowling
and menacing, the knight who sat so easily the large horse, flamed fury at his
refusal.
“And why can you not? It is no idle play, boy, to flaunt Sir Pellimore. Brave
knights have found the truth of this at bitter cost.”
“Nevertheless, Sir Knight, you must need find another message bearer. I am
page to Sir Percival and he would deem it no service to him should I bear a
strange knights message.”
“Then, by my faith, you shall learn your lesson. Since you are but a youth it
would prove but poor sport to thrust my sword through your worthless body.
Yet shall I find Sir Percival and make him pay for the boorishness of his page.
In the meantime, take you this.”
With a sweep the speaker brought the flat side of his sword down. But, if
perchance, he thought that the boy would await the blow he found surprise for
that worthy skillfully evaded the weapon’s downward thrust.
Now then was Sir Pellimore doubly wroth.
“Od’s zounds, and you need a trouncing. And so shall I give it you, else my
dignity would not hold its place.” Suiting action to word the knight reared his
horse, prepared to bring the boy to earth.
It might have gone ill with Allan but for the appearance at the turn of the road
of another figure−also on horseback. The new knight perceiving trouble, rode
forward.
“What do we see here?” he questioned. “Sir Knight, whose name I do not
know, it seems to me that you are in poor business to quarrel with so youthful
a foe. What say you?”
“As to with whom I quarrel is no concern of anyone but myself. I can,
however, to suit the purpose, change my foe. Such trouncing as I wish to give
this lad I can easily give to you, Sir Knight, and you wish it?”
“You can do no more than try. It may not be so easy as your boasting would
seeming indicate. Lad,” and the newcomer turned to the boy, “why does this
arrogant knight wish you harm?”
“He would have me carry a message, a challenge to Sir Kay, and that I cannot
do, for even now I bear a message from Sir Percival, whose page I am but
yesterday become. And I must hold true to my own lord and liege.”
“True words and well spoken. And so for you, Sir Knight of the arrogant
tongue, I hope your weapon speaks equally well. Prepare you, sir.”
Sir Pellimore laughed loudly and disdainfully.
“I call this great fortune which brings me battle with you, sir, who are
unknown but who I hope, none the less, are a true and brave knight.”
The next second the two horses crashed together. Sir Pellimore soon proved
his skill. The Unknown, equally at ease, contented himself with meeting
onslaught after onslaught, parrying clever thrusts and wicked blows. So they
battled for many an hour.
Allan, the boy, with eyes glistening, waited to see the outcome of the brave
fight. The Unknown, his champion, perhaps would need his aid through some
dire misfortune and he was prepared.
Now the Unknown changed his method from one of defense to one of
offense. But Sir Pellimore was none the less skillful. The third charge of his
foe he met so skillfully that both horses crashed to the ground. On foot, the
two men then fought−well and long. Until, through inadvertence, the
Unknown’s foot slipped and the next moment found his shield splintered and
sword…
 80: HOW TO TELL A STORY
by Mark Twain

The Humorous Story an American Development. −Its Difference from Comic

and Witty Stories.
I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know
how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of
the most expert story-tellers for many years.
There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind −the humorous. I
will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is American, the comic
story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its
effect upon the manner of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon
the matter.
The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander around
as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but the comic and
witty stories must be brief and end with a point. The humorous story bubbles
gently along, the others burst.
The humorous story is strictly a work of art −high and delicate art −and only
an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty
story; anybody can do it. The art of telling a humorous story −understand, I
mean by word of mouth, not print −was created in America, and has remained
at home.
The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal the fact
that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it; but the teller
of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he
has ever heard, then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh
when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so
glad and happy that he will repeat the “nub” of it and glance around from face
to face, collecting applause, and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing to
see.
Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story finishes
with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it. Then the listener
must be alert, for in many cases the teller will divert attention from that nub
by dropping it in a carefully casual and indifferent way, with the pretense that
he does not know it is a nub.
Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience
presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise, as if
wondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell used it before him,
Nye and Riley and others use it to-day.
But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you
−every time. And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany, and Italy,
he italicizes it, puts some whooping exclamation-points after it, and
sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is very depressing, and
makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.
Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote which
has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen hundred years. The
teller tells it in this way:
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER
In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off appealed
to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear, informing
him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained; whereupon the
generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate, proceeded to carry out his
desire. The bullets and cannon-balls were flying in all directions, and…
 81: THE COMPLETE BOOK OF CATS
by Adie Suehsdorf

In the long span of man’s residence on earth, perhaps no creature has

intrigued and perplexed him so much as the cat.
He is attracted by her neat good looks, put off by her independence, amused
by her antics, made uneasy by her composure, flattered when she rubs against
his leg, irked when she yawns in his face and ignores his commands.
He envies her ability to relax, likes her softness to the touch, enjoys hearing
her purr. He is wary of her claws, dislikes being fixed by her unwavering stare
and hates her caterwauling on the back fence at night. He is gratified when
she kills rodents, outraged when she kills anything else, particularly birds.
(That privilege he reserves for himself — and his bird dog.)
At times in his walk through history he has found reason to worship her, and
at times to persecute her almost to extinction. His always active imagination
has attributed to her, wrongly and unfairly, many of his own worst character
traits, while begrudging her possession of that in-alienable right he has always
sought for himself — personal freedom.
All in all, it is an odd relationship that man has established with cat. Toward
no other domestic animal does he show such split feelings of admiration and
resentment — which is some kind of a comment on man, for the cat is
constant. She has always been cat.
With the other beasts, man has clustered about him, the situation is fairly
clear. His appreciation of chicken, cow, sheep, pig and goat lies largely in his
taste buds. With astonishingly little protest, these citizens have allowed
themselves to become the prime source of protein in man’s diet. Every once
in a while, man considers his firm muscles, rich blood and keen brain and is
duly grateful to the various fricasseed, broiled and barbecued contributors to
his condition. But he wouldn’t dream of changing the setup. For none of these
barnyard friends really qualifies as a pet. Their manifest destiny is to nourish
the family of man and, incidentally, to become calfskin shoes, pigskin gloves,
Angora sweaters, long woolen underwear, glue, fertilizer and other products
of man’s invention. Furthermore, one is a little loss to the world when one is
considered chicken-hearted, as blankly stupid as a cow, sheepish as a sheep,
hoggish as a pig and lecherous as a goat.
The horse has fared slightly better. He has been held in high esteem because
he is swift, durable and strong, and because man looks so majestic riding him.
He is also teachable and obedient; two qualities man always has insisted on in
animals who wish to be his friends. The horse, however, is passing from the
scene. The machine age has diminished his value as a work animal; his
centuries of service are commemorated solely in the horsepower rating given
to the vehicles which have supplanted him. Even riding is a declining art,
practiced nowadays almost exclusively by jockeys, cowboys and debutantes.
Perhaps the horse’s greatest failing has been his size. His permanent place as
one of man’s pets was lost the day it became clear he was too big to be a
member of the household. Today he enters only in one-pound packages, as
dinner for dog and cat.
With the dog, man seems to have made his peace early. Man understands dog.
He is comfortable with dog. He appreciates dog’s loyalty, courage,
intelligence…
 82: ANCIENT MAN
by Hendrik Willem Van Loon

It took Columbus more than four weeks to sail from Spain to the West Indian
Islands. We on the other hand cross the ocean in sixteen hours in a flying
machine.
Five hundred years ago, three or four years were necessary to copy a book by
hand. We possess linotype machines and rotary presses and we can print a
new book in a couple of days.
We understand a great deal about anatomy and chemistry and mineralogy and
we are familiar with a thousand different branches of science of which the
very name was unknown to the people of the past.
In one respect, however, we are quite as ignorant as the most primitive of men
−we do not know where we came from. We do not know how or why or when
the human race began its career upon this Earth. With a million facts at our
disposal we are still obliged to follow the example of the fairy-stories and
begin in the old way:
“Once upon a time there was a man.”
This man lived hundreds of thousands of years ago.
What did he look like?
We do not know. We never saw his picture. Deep in the clay of an ancient soil
we have sometimes found a few pieces of his skeleton. They were hidden
amidst masses of bones of animals that have long since disappeared from the
face of the earth. We have taken these bones and they allow us to reconstruct
the strange creature who happens to be our ancestor.
The great-great-grandfather of the human race was a very ugly and
unattractive mammal. He was quite small. The heat of the sun and the biting
wind of the cold winter had colored his skin a dark brown. His head and most
of his body were covered with long hair. He had very thin but strong fingers
which made his hands look like those of a monkey. His forehead was low and
his jaw was like the jaw of a wild animal which uses its teeth both as fork and
knife.
He wore no clothes. He had seen no fire except the flames of the rumbling
volcanoes which filled the earth with their smoke and their lava.
He lived in the damp blackness of vast forests.
When he felt the pangs of hunger he ate raw leaves and the roots of plants or
he stole the eggs from the nest of an angry bird.
Once in a while, after a long and patient chase, he managed to catch a sparrow
or a small wild dog or perhaps a rabbit These he would eat raw, for prehistoric
man did not know that food could be cooked.
His teeth were large and looked like the teeth of many of our own animals.
During the hours of day this primitive human being went about in search of
food for himself and his wife and his young.
At night, frightened by the noise of the beasts, who were in search of prey, he
would creep into a hollow tree or he would hide himself behind a few big
boulders, covered with moss and great, big spiders.
In summer he was exposed to the scorching rays of the sun.
During the winter he froze with cold.
When he hurt himself (and hunting animals are forever breaking their bones
or spraining their ankles) he had no one to take care of him.
He had learned how to make certain sounds to warn his fellow-beings
whenever danger threatened. In this he resembled a dog who barks when a
stranger approaches. In many other respects he was far less attractive than a
well-bred house pet.
Altogether, early man was a miserable creature who lived in a world of fright
and hunger, who was surrounded by a thousand enemies and who was…
 83: THE HISTORY OF THE TELEPHONE
by Herbert N. Casson

In that somewhat distant year 1875, when the telegraph and the Atlantic cable
were the most wonderful things in the world, a tall young professor of
elocution was desperately busy in a noisy machine-shop that stood in one of
the narrow streets of Boston, not far from Scollay Square. It was a very hot
afternoon in June, but the young professor had forgotten the heat and the
grime of the workshop. He was wholly absorbed in the making of a
nondescript machine, a sort of crude harmonica with a clock-spring reed, a
magnet, and a wire. It was a most absurd toy in appearance. It was unlike any
other thing that had ever been made in any country. The young professor had
been toiling over it for three years and it had constantly baffled him, until, on
this hot afternoon in June, 1875, he heard an almost inaudible sound−a faint
TWANG−come from the machine itself.
For an instant he was stunned. He had been expecting just such a sound for
several months, but it came so suddenly as to give him the sensation of
surprise. His eyes blazed with delight, and he sprang in a passion of eagerness
to an adjoining room in which stood a young mechanic who was assisting
him.
“Snap that reed again, Watson,” cried the apparently irrational young
professor. There was one of the odd-looking machines in each room, so it
appears, and the two were connected by an electric wire. Watson had snapped
the reed on one of the machines and the professor had heard from the other
machine exactly the same sound. It was no more than the gentle TWANG of a
clock-spring; but it was the first time in the history of the world that a
complete sound had been carried along a wire, reproduced perfectly at the
other end, and heard by an expert in acoustics.
That twang of the clock-spring was the first tiny cry of the newborn
telephone, uttered in the clanging din of a machine-shop and happily heard by
a man whose ear had been trained to recognize the strange voice of the little
newcomer. There, amidst flying belts and jarring wheels, the baby telephone
was born, as feeble and helpless as any other baby, and “with no language but
a cry.”
The professor-inventor, who had thus rescued the tiny foundling of science,
was a young Scottish American. His name, now known as widely as the
telephone itself, was Alexander Graham Bell. He was a teacher of acoustics
and a student of electricity, possibly the only man in his generation who was
able to focus a knowledge of both subjects upon the problem of the telephone.
To other men that exceedingly faint sound would have been as inaudible as
silence itself; but to Bell it was a thunder-clap. It was a dream come true. It
was an impossible thing which had in a flash become so easy that he could
scarcely believe it. Here, without the use of a battery, with no more electric
current than that made by a couple of magnets, all the waves of a sound had
been carried along a wire and changed back to sound at the farther end. It was
absurd. It was incredible. It was something which neither wire nor electricity
had been known to do before. But it was true.
No discovery has ever been less accidental. It was the last link of a long chain
of discoveries. It was the result of a persistent and deliberate search. Already,
for half a year or longer, Bell had known the correct theory…
 84: ROMEO AND JULIET (Simplified)
by Charles and Mary Lamb

The two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets and the Montagues.
There had been an old quarrel between these families, which was grown to
such a height, and so deadly was the enmity between them, that it extended to
the remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers of both sides, in so much
that a servant of the house of Montague could not meet a servant of the house
of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with a Montague by chance, but fierce
words and sometimes bloodshed ensued; and frequent were the brawls from
such accidental meetings, which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona’s streets.
Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies and many
noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of Verona were present,
and all comers were made welcome if they were not of the house of
Montague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the
old Lord Montague, was present; and though it was dangerous for a Montague
to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the
young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a mask, that he might see
his Rosaline, and, seeing her, compare her with some choice beauties of
Verona, who (he said) would make him think his swan a crow. Romeo had
small faith in Benvolio’s words; nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was
persuaded to go. For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that
lost his sleep for love and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline, who
disdained him and never requited his love with the least show of courtesy or
affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of this love by showing him
diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of Capulets, then, young
Romeo, with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio, went masked. Old Capulet
bid them welcome and told them that ladies who had their toes unplagued
with corns would dance with them. And the old man was light-hearted and
merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he was young and could have
told a whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo
was suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there,
who seemed to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show
by night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor; beauty too rich for use, too
dear for earth! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), so richly did
her beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her companions. While he
uttered these praises he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of Lord Capulet,
who knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a fiery
and passionate temper, could not endure that a Montague should come under
cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at their solemnities. And he
stormed and raged exceedingly, and would have struck young Romeo dead.
But his uncle, the old Lord Capulet, would not suffer him to do any injury at
that time, both out of respect to his guests and because Romeo had borne
himself like a gentleman and all tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a
virtuous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his
will, restrained himself, but swore that this vile Montague should at another
time dearly pay for his intrusion.
The dancing being done, Romeo…
 85: HENRY VIII AND HIS COURT
by unknown author

It was in the year 1543. King Henry the Eighth of England that day once more
pronounced himself the happiest and most enviable man in his kingdom, for
today he was once more a bridegroom, and Catharine Parr, the youthful
widow of Baron Latimer, had the perilous happiness of being selected as the
king’s sixth consort.
Merrily chimed the bells of all the steeples of London, announcing to the
people the commencement of that holy ceremony which sacredly bound
Catharine Parr to the king as his sixth wife. The people, ever fond of novelty
and show, crowded through the streets toward the royal palace to catch a sight
of Catharine, when she appeared at her husband’s side upon the balcony, to
show herself to the English people as their queen, and to receive their homage
in return.
Surely it was a proud and lofty success for the widow of a petty baron to
become the lawful wife of the King of England, and to wear upon her brow a
royal crown! But yet Catharine Parr’s heart was moved with a strange fear,
her cheeks were pale and cold, and before the altar her closely compressed
lips scarcely had the power to part, and pronounce the binding “I will.”
At last the sacred ceremony was completed. The two spiritual dignitaries,
Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, and Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, then,
in accordance with court etiquette, led the young bride into her apartments, in
order to bless them, and once more to pray with her, before the worldly
festivities should begin.
Catharine, however, pale and agitated, had yet sustained her part in the
various ceremonies of the day with a true queenly bearing and dignity; and, as
now with head proudly erect and firm step, she walked with a bishop at either
side through the splendid apartments, no one suspected how heavy a burden
weighed upon her heart, and what baleful voices were whispering in her
breast.
Followed by her new court, she had traversed with her companions the state
apartments, and now reached the inner rooms. Here, according to the etiquette
of the time, she must dismiss her court, and only the two bishops and her
ladies of honor were permitted to accompany the queen into the drawing-
room. But farther than this chamber even the bishops themselves might not
follow her. The king himself had written down the order for the day, and he
who swerved from this order in the most insignificant point would have been
proclaimed guilty of high treason, and perhaps have been led out to death.
Catharine, therefore, turned with a languid smile to the two high ecclesiastics,
and requested them to await here her summons. Then beckoning to her ladies
of honor, she withdrew into her boudoir.
The two bishops remained by themselves in the drawing-room. The
circumstance of their being alone seemed to impress them both alike and
unpleasantly; for a dark scowl gathered on the brows of both, and they
withdrew, as if at a concerted signal, to the opposite sides of the spacious
apartment.
A long pause ensued. Nothing was heard save the regular ticking of a large
clock of rare workmanship which stood over the fireplace, and from the street
afar off, the rejoicing of the people, who surged toward the palace like a
roaring sea.
Gardiner had stepped to the window, and was looking up with his peculiar
dark smile at the clouds which, driven…
 86: THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL
by Joseph A. Altsheler

A young officer in dingy Confederate gray rode slowly on a powerful bay

horse through a forest of oak. It was a noble woodland, clear of undergrowth,
the fine trees standing in rows, like those of a park. They were bare of leaves
but the winter had been mild so far, and a carpet of short grass, yet green,
covered the ground. To the rider’s right flowed a small river of clear water,
one of the beautiful streams of the great Virginia valleys.
Harry Kenton threw his head back a little and drew deep breaths of the cool,
crisp air. The light wind had the touch of life in it. As the cool puffs blew
upon him and filled his lungs his chest expanded and his strong pulses beat
more strongly. But a boy in years, he had already done a man’s work, and he
had been through those deeps of passion and despair which war alone brings.
A year spent in the open and with few nights under roof had enlarged Harry
Kenton’s frame and had colored his face a deep red. His great ancestor, Henry
Ware, had been very fair, and Harry, like him, became scarlet of cheek under
the beat of wind and rain.
Had anyone with a discerning eye been there, to see, he would have called
this youth one of the finest types of the South that rode forth so boldly to war.
He sat his saddle with the ease and grace that come only of long practice, and
he controlled his horse with the slightest touch of the rein. The open, frank
face showed hate of nobody, although the soul behind it was devoted without
any reserve to the cause for which he fought.
Harry was on scout duty. Although an officer on the staff of Colonel Talbot,
commander of the Invincibles, originally a South Carolina regiment, he had
developed so much skill in forest and field, he had such acuteness of eye and
ear, that he was sent often to seek the camps of the enemy or to discover his
plans. His friends said that these forest powers were inherited, that they came
from some far-away ancestor who had spent his life in the wilderness, and
Harry knew that what they said was true.
Despite the peaceful aspect of the forest and the lack of human presence save
his own, he rode now on an errand that was full of danger. The Union camp
must lie on the other side of that little river, not many miles farther on, and he
might meet, at any moment, the pickets of the foe. He meant to take the
uttermost risk, but he had no notion of being captured. He would suffer
anything, any chance, rather than that. He had lately come into contact with a
man who had breathed into him the fire and spirit belonging to legendary
heroes. To this man, short of words and plain of dress, nothing was
impossible, and Harry caught from him not merely the belief, but the
conviction also.
Late in the autumn the Invincibles, who had suffered severely at Bull Run and
afterward had been cut down greatly in several small actions in the
mountains, had been transferred to the command of Stonewall Jackson in the
Shenandoah Valley. Disease and the hospital had reduced the regiment to less
than three hundred, but their spirits were as high as ever. Their ranks were
renewed partly with Virginians. Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel St.
Hilaire had recovered from small wounds, and St. Clair and Langdon were
whole and as hard as iron. After a period of waiting they were now longing
for…
 87: SPEECH POWER
by Adelbert Brown

Today’s concept of speaking up to the boss or talking for public consumption

varies widely from the conceptions that existed in the immediate past.
Education has advanced to a point where the majority of today’s salespeople
transmit their ideas as clearly as did most Senators at the turn of the century.
The successful person today must have a good command of the English
language. He must express himself clearly and fluently in commonplace
business conversation, across the conference table, or from a speaker’s
platform.
Bread and Butter Oratory
To succeed today, a man must be able to speak effectively. The identical rules
that a public speaker observes apply to the fellow who wants to reach
executive rank. The rules that a modern Demosthenes heeds are identical with
the rules that the fellow must follow to lift his “management” level.
The old Bryan style of crowd oratory is as dated today as buggy riding. The
modern approach is by way of factual, intimate speeches with the other
fellow’s viewpoint (no matter how inconsequential) getting more
consideration. When you let the fellow on the other side of the fence know
that you can look through his glasses and see the same thing he sees, he is
more willing to see your side too.
After all, isn’t the most successful trial lawyer the one who can set out the
opponent’s case more clearly than the opponent’s attorney? These forensic
influences have turned effective speaking from a public harangue into a calm,
informal, fact-facing consideration of a subject, and the type of public speaker
now adopts an almost conversational attitude in intimate pep talks, business
sessions, director’s sessions and stockholders’ meetings. Speaking publicly
has become private conversation raised to a larger audience level.
Since effective public speaking has changed from “show” to “know,” the
same tested techniques that apply to successful speaking apply to private get-
togethers. Under today’s conditions, speaking helps men in “management”
and can lift the level of the junior executive. Since modern public speaking is
but conversation with more people present, a modern speaker’s skill must be
seasoned with the same condiments whether he is a politician addressing a
convention, or a junior “exec” promoting an idea to a luncheon group or to
the executive board.
Not One of the Arts
Public speaking cannot be classified as a fine art. Its purpose is not
exhibitionism; it is the transmission of ideas. If your mind wanders from the
idea you hope to convey and you wonder whether the audience is impressed
by your platform appearance, studied gestures or polished delivery, you will
lose their attention.
They are not interested in your showmanship— only in the idea you came to
convey. If that idea offers a fresh approach or a well-considered opinion,
you’ve hit pay dirt and got a gusher; but if you give out only harangue and
hurrah, you’ll rate as only another gasser.
The Way to Convey Ideas
When a speaker has faith in his message and is eager to have his hearers share
it, what he says rings with sincerity. The sincere man needs neither rhetoric
nor sugar-coated expressions. He conveys his message merely by expressing
his thoughts in a clear, orderly and articulate manner. When it’s his turn to
talk, he’ll rise and shine. He leaves the bombastic…
 88: TALKS ON TALKING
by Grenville Kleiser

The charm of conversation chiefly depends upon the adaptability of the

participants. It is a great accomplishment to be able to enter gently and
agreeably into the moods of others, and to give way to them with grace and
readiness.
The spirit of conversation is oftentimes more important than the ideas
expressed. What we are rather than what we say has the most permanent
influence upon those around us. Hence it is that where a group of persons are
met together in conversation, it is the inner life of each which silently though
none the less surely imparts tone and character to the occasion.
It requires vigorous self-discipline so to cultivate the feelings of kindness and
sympathy that they are always in readiness for use. These qualities are
essential to agreeable and profitable intercourse, though comparatively few
people possess them.
Burke considered manners of more importance than laws. Sidney Smith
described manners as the shadows of virtues. Dean Swift defined manners as
the art of putting at ease the people with whom we converse. Chesterfield said
manners should adorn knowledge in order to smooth its way through the
world. Emerson spoke of manners as composed of petty sacrifices.
We all recognize that a winning manner is made up of seemingly insignificant
courtesies, and of constant little attentions. A person of charming manner is
usually free from resentments, inquisitiveness, and moods.
Personality plays a large part in interesting conversation. Precisely the same
phraseology expressed by two different persons may make two wholly
different impressions, and all because of the difference in the personalities of
the speakers.
The daily mental life of a man indelibly impresses itself upon his face, where
it can be unmistakably read by others. What a person is, innately and
habitually, unconsciously discloses itself in voice, manner, and bearing. The
world ultimately appraises a man at his true value.
The best type of talker is slow to express positive opinions, is sparing in
criticism, and studiously avoids a tone or word of finality. It has been well
said that “A talker who monopolizes the conversation is by common consent
insufferable, and a man who regulates his choice of topics by reference to
what interests not his hearers but himself has yet to learn the alphabet of the
art. Conversation is like lawn-tennis, and requires alacrity in return at least as
much as vigor in service. A happy phrase, an unexpected collocation of
words, a habitual precision in the choice of terms, are rare and shining
ornaments of conversation, but they do not for an instant supply the place of
lively and interesting matter, and an excessive care for them is apt to tell
unfavorably on the substance of discourse.”
When Lord Beaconsfield was talking his way into social fame, someone said
of him, “I might as well attempt to gather up the foam of the sea as to convey
an idea of the extraordinary language in which he clothed his description.
There were at least five words in every sentence that must have been very
much astonished at the use they were put to, and yet no others apparently
could so well have expressed his idea. He talked like a racehorse approaching
the winning-post−every muscle in action, and the utmost energy of expression
flung out into every burst.” We…
 89: AN IDEAL FAMILY
by Katherine Mansfield

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the swing
door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr. Neave felt
he was too old for the spring. Spring— warm, eager, restless— was there,
waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to
blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn’t meet
her, no; he couldn’t square up once more and stride off, jaunty as a young
man, He was tired and, although the late sun was still shining, curiously cold,
with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly he hadn’t the energy, he hadn’t
the heart to stand this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused
him. He wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, “Be off
with you!” Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual— tipping his
wide-awake with his stick— all the people whom he knew, the friends,
acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that went
with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, “I’m a match and
more for any of you”— that old Mr. Neave could not manage at all. He
stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking through air that
had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the homeward-looking
crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts clattered, the big swinging
cabs bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference that one knows
only in dreams…
It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had happened.
Harold hadn’t come back from lunch until close on four. Where had he been?
What had he been up to? He wasn’t going to let his father know. Old Mr.
Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye to a caller, when
Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that
peculiar little half-smile that women found so fascinating.
Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the trouble
all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and such lips; it was
uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the servants, it was not too much
to say they made a young god of him; they worshiped Harold, they forgave
him everything; and he had needed some forgiving ever since the time when
he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother’s purse, taken the money, and
hidden the purse in the cook’s bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with
his stick upon the pavement edge. But it wasn’t only his family who spoiled
Harold, he reflected, it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and
down they went before him. So perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at that he
expected the office to carry on the tradition. H’m, h’m! But it couldn’t be
done. No business— not even a successful, established, big paying concern-
could be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into it,
or it went all to pieces before his eyes.
And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole thing
over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. Enjoying
himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient cabbage palms
outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The wind of evening
shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his
thumbs…
 90: A CHARMED LIFE
by Richard Harding Davis

She loved him so, that when he went away to a little war in which his country
was interested she could not understand, nor quite forgive.
As the correspondent of a newspaper, Chesterton had looked on at other wars;
when the yellow races met, when the infidel Turk spanked the Christian
Greek; and one he had watched from inside a British square, where he was
greatly alarmed lest he should be trampled upon by terrified camels. This had
happened before he and she had met. After they met, she told him that what
chances he had chosen to take before he came into her life fell outside of her
jurisdiction. But now that his life belonged to her, this talk of his standing up
to be shot at was wicked. It was worse than wicked; it was absurd.
When the Maine sank in Havana harbor and the word “war” was appearing
hourly in hysterical extras, Miss Armitage explained her position.
“You mustn’t think,” she said, “that I am one of those silly girls who would
beg you not to go to war.”
At the moment of speaking her cheek happened to be resting against his, and
his arm was about her, so he humbly bent his head and kissed her, and
whispered very proudly and softly, “No, dearest.”
At which she withdrew from him frowning.
“No! I’m not a bit like those girls,” she proclaimed. “I merely tell you you
CAN’T GO! My gracious!” she cried, helplessly. She knew the words fell
short of expressing her distress, but her education had not supplied her with
exclamations of greater violence.
“My goodness!” she cried. “How can you frighten me so? It’s not like you,”
she reproached him. “You are so unselfish, so noble. You are always thinking
of other people. How can you talk of going to war−to be killed−to me? And
now, now that you have made me love you so?”
The hands, that when she talked seemed to him like swallows darting and
flashing in the sunlight, clutched his sleeve. The fingers, that he would rather
kiss than the lips of any other woman that ever lived, clung to his arm. Their
clasp reminded him of that of a drowning child he had once lifted from the
surf.
“If you should die,” whispered Miss Armitage. “What would I do. What
would I do!”
“But my dearest,” cried the young man. “My dearest ONE! I’ve GOT to go.
It’s our own war. Everybody else will go,” he pleaded. “Every man you know,
and they’re going to fight, too. I’m going only to look on. That’s bad enough,
isn’t it, without sitting at home? You should be sorry I’m not going to fight.”
“Sorry!” exclaimed the girl. “If you love me−”
“If I love you,” shouted the young man. His voice suggested that he was
about to shake her. “How dare you?”
She abandoned that position and attacked from one more logical.
“But why punish me?” she protested. “Do I want the war? Do I want to free
Cuba? No! I want YOU, and if you go, you are the one who is sure to be
killed. You are so big−and so brave, and you will be rushing in wherever the
fighting is, and then−then you will die.” She raised her eyes and looked at
him as though seeing him from a great distance. “And,” she added fatefully,
“I will die, too, or maybe I will have to live, to live without you for years, for
many miserable years.”
Fearfully, with great caution, as though in his joy in her he might crush her in
his hands, the young man drew her to him and held her close. After a silence
he whispered…
 91: CAVE BOY OF THE AGE OF STONE
by Margaret A. Mcintyre

It was spring, thousands of years ago. Little boys snatched the April violets,
and with them painted purple stripes upon their arms and faces. Then they
played that enemies came.
“Be afraid!” shouted one, frowning; and he stamped his foot and shook his
fist at the play enemies.
“I am fine!” called the other; and he held his head high, and took big steps,
and looked this way and that.
The little brothers were named Thorn and Pineknot. Their baby sister had no
name. The children looked rough and wild and strong and glad. The sun had
made them brown, the wind had tangled their hair. Their clothes were only
bits of fox skin. Their home was the safe rock cave in the side of the hill.
Near the children a little goat was eating the sweet new grass. She was tied
with a string made of skin. Thorn stroked her and, laughing, said, “Let us put
the baby on the goat’s back and see her run.”
“Oh, that would be fun!” cried Pineknot, and he ran and untied the goat.
Laughing, Thorn put the baby on the goat’s back. The little fingers clung to
the goat’s hair.
Then Thorn struck the goat and shouted, “Run!”
The goat ran; the baby laughed; Pineknot danced and clapped his hands. All
at once, the goat stood up on her hind legs. The baby fell off, and rolled over
and over on the ground. She cried out, though she was not hurt. And the boys
laughed and shouted till the woods rang.
After a while Pineknot thought of the goat; he had not tied her.
“Where is the little goat? Oh, there she is up among the rocks. She did not run
away, Thorn.”
“No,” said Thorn, “she will not run away now, for we pet her and give her
things to eat. Mother feeds her, too.”
“Oh, but she was a wild one when father brought her home,” said Pineknot.
“Father killed the mother goat and caught the young one alive. He said that he
would keep her at the cave. Then someday when he had killed nothing on the
hunt, and we were hungry, he would kill the goat.”
“We will ask father not to kill her, but let us keep her for a pet,” said Thorn.
As the boys were talking, from far away through the forest came a big, merry
song: “The wild horse ran very fast, but I ran faster! The wild horse ran very
fast, but I ran faster!”
“It is father coming from the hunt,” said Thorn, jumping to his feet.
“He is bringing wild horse meat. Good, good!” cried Pineknot.
Thorn threw the baby on his back, and together the boys ran into the forest to
meet their father.
The forest−oh, it was beautiful! The trunks of the old trees were big and
rough and mossy. And there were tall ferns and gray rocks and little brooks,
and there was a sweet smell of rotting leaves.
“The wild horse ran very fast, but I ran faster!” still sang the young hunter,
shaking his red hair gaily. He was not tall, but his legs were big, for he ran
after the wild horse and deer and ox. And his arms were big, because he threw
a great spear and a stone ax. His name was Strongarm.
The boys came running up to their father. They pointed to the meat on his
shoulder, and laughed and shouted and clapped their hands.
“We shall not go hungry today! We shall not go hungry today!” they sang as
they danced along.
“Ho, ho, ho!” sang Strongarm to his wife, as he went into the cave. He threw
the horse meat upon the floor with a loud laugh, and lay down on a bear skin
to rest.
The cave was a big room with…
 92: TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES
by Charlotte M. Yonge

‘Twas on a night, an evening bright

When the dew began to fa’,
Lady Margaret was walking up and down,
Looking over her castle wa’.
The battlements of a castle were, in disturbed times, the only recreation-
ground of the ladies and play-place of the young people. Dunbar Castle,
standing on steep rocks above the North Sea, was not only inaccessible on
that side, but from its donjon tower commanded a magnificent view, both of
the expanse of waves, taking purple tints from the shadows of the clouds, with
here and there a sail fleeting before the wind, and of the rugged headlands of
the coast, point beyond point, the nearer distinct, and showing the green
summits, and below, the tossing waves breaking white against the dark rocks,
and the distance becoming more and more hazy, in spite of the bright sun
which made a broken path of glory along the tossing, white-crested waters.
The wind was a keen north-east breeze, and might have been thought too
severe by any but the ‘hardy, bold, and wild’ children who were merrily
playing on the top of the donjon tower, round the staff whence fluttered the
double treasured banner with ‘the ruddy lion ramped in gold’ denoting the
presence of the King.
Three little boys, almost babies, and a little girl not much older, were presided
over by a small elder sister, who held the youngest in her lap, and tried to
amuse him with caresses and rhymes, so as to prevent his interference with
the castle- building of the others, with their small hoard of pebbles and mussel
and cockle shells.
Another maiden, the wind tossing her long chestnut-locks, uncovered, but tied
with the Scottish snood, sat on the battlement, gazing far out over the waters,
with eyes of the same tint as the hair. Even the sea-breeze failed to give more
than a slight touch of color to her somewhat freckled complexion; and the
limbs that rested in a careless attitude on the stone bench were long and
languid, though with years and favorable circumstances there might be a
development of beauty and dignity. Her lips were crooning at intervals a
mournful old Scottish tune, sometimes only humming, sometimes uttering its
melancholy burthen, and she now and then touched a small harp that stood by
her side on the seat.
She did not turn round when a step approached, till a hand was laid on her
shoulder, when she started, and looked up into the face of another girl, on a
smaller scale, with a complexion of the lily-and-rose kind, fair hair under her
hood, with a hawk upon her wrist, and blue eyes dancing at the surprise of her
sister.
‘Eleanor in a creel, as usual!’ she cried.
‘I thought it was only one of the bairns,’ was the answer.
‘They might coup over the walls for aught thou seest,’ returned the new-
comer. ‘If it were not for little Mary what would become of the poor weans?’
‘What will become of any of us?’ said Eleanor. ‘I was gazing out over the sea
and wishing we could drift away upon it to some land of rest.’
‘The Glenuskie folk are going to try another land,’ said Jean. ‘I was in the
bailey-court even now playing at ball with Jamie when in comes a lay-
brother, with a letter from Sir Patrick to say that he is coming the night to
crave permission from Jamie to go with his wife to France. Annis, as you
know, is betrothed to the son of his French friends, Malcolm is to…
 93: THE $30,000 BEQUEST
by Mark Twain

Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants, and a
rather pretty one, too, as towns go in the Far West. It had church
accommodations for thirty-five thousand, which is the way of the Far West
and the South, where everybody is religious, and where each of the Protestant
sects is represented and has a plant of its own. Rank was unknown in
Lakeside−unconfessed, anyway; everybody knew everybody and his dog, and
a sociable friendliness was the prevailing atmosphere.
Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store, and the only high-
salaried man of his profession in Lakeside. He was thirty-five years old, now;
he had served that store for fourteen years; he had begun in his marriage-week
at four hundred dollars a year, and had climbed steadily up, a hundred dollars
a year, for four years; from that time forth his wage had remained eight
hundred−a handsome figure indeed, and everybody conceded that he was
worth it.
His wife, Electra, was a capable helpmeet, although−like himself−a dreamer
of dreams and a private dabbler in romance. The first thing she did, after her
marriage−child as she was, aged only nineteen−was to buy an acre of ground
on the edge of the town, and pay down the cash for it−twenty-five dollars, all
her fortune. Saladin had less, by fifteen. She instituted a vegetable garden
there, got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor, and made it pay her a
hundred per cent. a year. Out of Saladin’s first year’s wage she put thirty
dollars in the savings-bank, sixty out of his second, a hundred out of his third,
a hundred and fifty out of his fourth. His wage went to eight hundred a year,
then, and meantime two children had arrived and increased the expenses, but
she banked two hundred a year from the salary, nevertheless, thenceforth.
When she had been married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and
comfortable two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre, paid
half of the money down and moved her family in. Seven years later she was
out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning its living.
Earning it by the rise in landed estate; for she had long ago bought another
acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit to pleasant people who were
willing to build, and would be good neighbors and furnish a general
comradeship for herself and her growing family. She had an independent
income from safe investments of about a hundred dollars a year; her children
were growing in years and grace; and she was a pleased and happy woman.
Happy in her husband, happy in her children, and the husband and the
children were happy in her. It is at this point that this history begins.
The youngest girl, Clytemnestra−called Clytie for short−was eleven; her
sister, Gwendolen−called Gwen for short−was thirteen; nice girls, and
comely. The names betray the latent romance-tinge in the parental blood, the
parents’ names indicate that the tinge was an inheritance. It was an
affectionate family, hence all four of its members had pet names, Saladin’s
was a curious and unsexing one−Sally; and so was Electra’s−Aleck. All day
long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman; all day long
Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife, and thoughtful and
calculating business woman; but in a cozy…
 94: HOW TO SHOW YOUR OWN DOG
by Virginia Tuck Nichols

Very few people realize just what a large dog show is like. Perhaps they have
seen a local pet show or a small show in the neighborhood, but few have any
conception of a really big show. Let me tell you something about it. Let us use
for our first example the largest outdoor show in the United States: The
Morris and Essex Kennel Club show in Madison, New Jersey, usually held
the last weekend in May at Giralda, the beautiful estate of Mrs. Geraldine R.
Dodge. These lovely grounds are not used for any other event except this one
dog show one day each year.
On the grounds there is a permanent first-aid building staffed for the day with
nurses, a permanent press reporters’ building, and two large permanent
storage buildings to hold equipment during the year. Permanent ladies’ rooms
and men’s rooms are freshly painted each year, and even telephones are
brought into
the grounds for the big day. The parking lots will accommodate 10,000 cars.
There are 16 drinking-water fountains all piped underground. The great event
is held on a polo field, and the lawn there is manicured to within an inch of its
life. Caterers are on the grounds with hot lunches as well as sandwiches and
soft drinks. Flags fly from the tops of tents and buildings, and little pennants
in the club colors of purple and orange run up and down the tent ropes.
Electric lights are strung under the tents for the people and dogs who arrive
the night before the show, and a dog-food company supplies food for the
dogs.
One hundred very polite policemen are hired for the day to act as guards and
to help direct traffic on the grounds as well as through the town of Madison.
Incidentally, there are so many cars driving into the show that even five
entrances into the grounds are not adequate to keep traffic moving completely
smoothly. If you are an exhibitor, you are notified in advance which one of
the entrances will be closest to where your dog will be shown and where his
bench will be located. I will explain all the terms I have used later, such as
bench, exhibitor, et cetera, but right now I am trying to give you a mental
picture of this one show.
The dog-show catalogue of approximately 375 pages, with a cover in club
colors, is sold at each of the entrances as well as on the show field. Each of
the four exercise pens is approximately 3,700 square feet and each has electric
lights strung for night use. These pens circle groups of trees so that if it is a
hot day, there is shade for the dogs. In the exact center of the grounds there is
a permanent building for the show superintendent and the show secretary
from where they direct the many activities. There are 100 young men hired
for the day to act as runners and messengers. There are 42 large show rings
roped off and all 42 will be used at one time, each with its judge, stewards
(who help the judge), runners (who help locate the dogs), and the many
exhibitors and spectators interested in each breed. Each ring will have an
umbrella under which the judge will sit to get relief from the sun while
waiting for the classes to start. On his table will be a carafe of water in case
he gets thirsty, and there will also be many sterling-silver trophies as well as
crisp new one-, five-, and ten-dollar bills to be used as prize money. There
will also be lots…
 95: STORY HOUR READERS
by Ida Coe, Pd.M.

HANSEL AND GRETEL

In a little cottage at the edge of a forest in Germany, lived Peter, a poor broom
maker, and his wife Gertrude. They had two children, Hansel and Gretel.
One day Hansel and Gretel were left alone at home. Their father had gone to
the village to sell brooms. Their mother was away, too.
The children were left busily at work. The boy was mending brooms, the girl
knitting stockings. After a time, they became tired of their hard work.
“Come, Gretel, let us have some fun!” cried Hansel.
As he spoke, he threw the broom upon the floor, and pulled the stocking from
his sister’s hand.
“Oh, yes!” said Gretel. “I will teach you a song, and you can learn the steps of
the dance.”
Hansel and Gretel danced about the room. Gretel sang, while she and Hansel
danced, “First your foot you tap, tap, tap. Then your hands you clap, clap,
clap; Right foot first, left foot then, Round about and back again.”
Presently the mother returned home. She entered the room and found Hansel
and Gretel at play.
“You lazy children!” she exclaimed. “Why have you not finished your work?”
Taking the broom that Hansel had thrown upon the floor, the mother started to
punish him, but the boy was too quick for her.
Hansel ran nimbly about, and as she was trying to catch him, the mother upset
a jug of milk. It was all the food there was in the house.
“Oh, mother!” cried Gretel. “You have spilled the milk, and we shall have
nothing to eat.”
“Go out into the woods and gather some strawberries. Do not return until you
have filled the basket to the brim,” commanded the mother. “Hansel, help
your sister pick the berries, and hurry back, both of you, for there is nothing
else for supper.”
Towards evening the father returned from the village.
“Ho, ho, good wife!” called Peter. “I have had great luck to-day, and have
sold all my brooms. Now for a good supper! See here−bread and butter, some
potatoes, ham and eggs. But where are the children?”
“They have gone to the woods to gather strawberries,” replied Gertrude.
“It is growing dark. Hansel and Gretel should have been here long ago,” said
Peter anxiously.
The wife began to prepare supper. The husband went to the door of the
cottage and looked out into the darkness.
“Alas, my children!” cried Peter. “I fear that the terrible Witch of the Forest
may find them, and that we shall never see them again!”
Meanwhile Hansel and Gretel had filled the basket with strawberries, and
then had wandered into the forest. They sat down upon a mossy bank under a
fir tree, to rest.
“Here is a fine strawberry! Taste it,” said Gretel.
She put a berry into Hansel’s mouth and took one for herself.
“I am so hungry! Give me another berry,” said Hansel.
The children tasted another and another of the strawberries, until all were gone.
“Oh, Hansel! We have eaten all of the strawberries,” cried Gretel. “We must
fill the basket again.”
The children began to hunt for more berries, but it was now growing dark,
and they could find none. To make matters worse, they had lost their way.
Gretel began to cry, but Hansel tried to be very brave.
“I will take care of you, sister,” said he.
“Hark!” said Gretel.
They could hear soft voices among the trees. The children became more
frightened than before.
“What is that, near the dark bushes?” whispered Gretel.
“It is only the stump of a tree,” replied…
 96: POLITICAL IDEALS
by Bertrand Russell

In dark days, men need a clear faith and a well-grounded hope; and as the
outcome of these, the calm courage which takes no account of hardships by
the way. The times through which we are passing have afforded to many of us
a confirmation of our faith. We see that the things we had thought evil are
really evil, and we know more definitely than we ever did before the
directions in which men must move if a better world is to arise on the ruins of
the one which is now hurling itself into destruction. We see that men’s
political dealings with one another are based on wholly wrong ideals, and can
only be saved by quite different ideals from continuing to be a source of
suffering, devastation, and sin.
Political ideals must be based upon ideals for the individual life. The aim of
politics should be to make the lives of individuals as good as possible. There
is nothing for the politician to consider outside or above the various men,
women, and children who compose the world. The problem of politics is to
adjust the relations of human beings in such a way that each severally may
have as much of good in his existence as possible. And this problem requires
that we should first consider what it is that we think good in the individual
life.
To begin with, we do not want all men to be alike. We do not want to lay
down a pattern or type to which men of all sorts are to be made by some
means or another to approximate. This is the ideal of the impatient
administrator. A bad teacher will aim at imposing his opinion, and turning out
a set of pupils all of whom will give the same definite answer on a doubtful
point. Mr. Bernard Shaw is said to hold that Troilus and Cressida is the best of
Shakespeare’s plays. Although I disagree with this opinion, I should welcome
it in a pupil as a sign of individuality; but most teachers would not tolerate
such a heterodox view. Not only teachers, but all commonplace persons in
authority, desire in their subordinates that kind of uniformity which makes
their actions easily predictable and never inconvenient. The result is that they
crush initiative and individuality when they can, and when they cannot, they
quarrel with it.
It is not one ideal for all men, but a separate ideal for each separate man, that
has to be realized if possible. Every man has it in his being to develop into
something good or bad: there is a best possible for him, and a worst possible.
His circumstances will determine whether his capacities for good are
developed or crushed, and whether his bad impulses are strengthened or
gradually diverted into better channels.
But although we cannot set up in any detail an ideal of character which is to
be universally applicable−although we cannot say, for instance, that all men
ought to be industrious, or self-sacrificing, or fond of music−there are some
broad principles which can be used to guide our estimates as to what is
possible or desirable.
We may distinguish two sorts of goods, and two corresponding sorts of
impulses. There are goods in regard to which individual possession is
possible, and there are goods in which all can share alike. The food and
clothing of one man is not the food and clothing of another; if the supply is
insufficient, what one man has is obtained at the expense of some other man.
This applies…
 97: THE SPECKLED BAND
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during
the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find
many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none
commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the
acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation
which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these
varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular
features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of
the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early
days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as
bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon
record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I
have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady
to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumors as
to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even
more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ‘83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock
Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as
a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a
quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a
little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this
morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on
you.”
“What is it, then–a fire?”
“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of
excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-
room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of
the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is
something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to
be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset.
I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions,
and yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he unraveled the
problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and
was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room.
A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the
window, rose as we entered.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom
you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs.
Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall
order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”…
 98: DRACULA’S GUEST
by Bram Stoker

When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich, and
the air was full of the joyousness of early summer. Just as we were about to
depart, Herr Delbruck (the maitre d’hotel of the Quatre Saisons, where I was
staying) came down bareheaded to the carriage and, after wishing me a
pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still holding his hand on the handle of
the carriage door, “Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright
but there is a shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm.
But I am sure you will not be late.” Here he smiled and added, “for you know
what night it is.”
Johann answered with an emphatic, “Ja, mein Herr,” and, touching his hat,
drove off quickly. When we had cleared the town, I said, after signaling to
him to stop:
“Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?”
He crossed himself, as he answered laconically: “Walpurgis nacht.” Then he
took out his watch, a great, old-fashioned German silver thing as big as a
turnip and looked at it, with his eyebrows gathered together and a little
impatient shrug of his shoulders. I realized that this was his way of
respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay and sank back in the
carriage, merely motioning him to proceed. He started off rapidly, as if to
make up for lost time. Every now and then the horses seemed to throw up
their heads and sniff the air suspiciously. On such occasions I often looked
round in alarm. The road was pretty bleak, for we were traversing a sort of
high windswept plateau. As we drove, I saw a road that looked but little used
and which seemed to dip through a little winding valley. It looked so inviting
that, even at the risk of offending him, I called Johann to stop - and when he
had pulled up, I told him I would like to drive down that road. He made all
sorts of excuses and frequently crossed himself as he spoke. This somewhat
piqued my curiosity, so I asked him various questions. He answered fencingly
and repeatedly looked at his watch in protest.
Finally, I said, “Well, Johann, I want to go down this road. I shall not ask you
to come unless you like; but tell me why you do not like to go, that is all I
ask.” For answer he seemed to throw himself off the box, so quickly did he
reach the ground. Then he stretched out his hands appealingly to me and
implored me not to go. There was just enough of English mixed with the
German for me to understand the drift of his talk. He seemed always just
about to tell me something - the very idea of which evidently frightened him;
but each time he pulled himself up saying, “Walpurgis nacht!”
I tried to argue with him, but it was difficult to argue with a man when I did
not know his language. The advantage certainly rested with him, for although
he began to speak in English, of a very crude and broken kind, he always got
excited and broke into his native tongue - and every time he did so, he looked
at his watch. Then the horses became restless and sniffed the air. At this he
grew very pale, and, looking around in a frightened way, he suddenly jumped
forward, took them by the bridles, and led them on some twenty feet. I
followed and asked why he had done this. For an answer he crossed himself,
pointed to the spot we had left, and drew his carriage in the direction of the
other road, indicating…
 99: A SCHOOL STORY
by M. R. James

Two men in a smoking-room were talking of their private-school days. “At

our school,” said A., “We had a ghost’s footmark on the staircase. “
“What was it like?”
“Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape of a shoe, with a square toe, if I
remember right. The staircase was a stone one. I never heard any story about
the thing. That seems odd, when you come to think of it. Why didn’t
somebody invent one, I wonder?”
“You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own.
There’s a subject for you, by the way— “The Folklore of Private Schools.”
“Yes; the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were to investigate
the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at private schools tell
each other, they would all turn out to be highly-compressed versions of stories
out of books.”
“Nowadays the Strand and Pearson’s, and so on, would be extensively drawn
upon.”
“No doubt: they weren’t born or thought of in my time. Let’s see. I wonder if
I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there was the house with
a room in which a series of people insisted on passing a night; and each of
them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner, and had just time to say,
‘I’ve seen it,’ and died.”
“Wasn’t that the house in Berkeley Square?”
“I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the passage at
night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towards him on all fours
with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides, let me think— Yes!
the room where a man was found dead in bed with a horseshoe mark on his
forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered with marks of horseshoes
also; I don’t know why. Also there was the lady who, on locking her bedroom
door in a strange house, heard a thin voice among the bed-curtains say, ‘Now
we’re shut in for the night.’ None of those had any explanation or sequel. I
wonder if they go on still, those stories.”
“Oh, likely enough— with additions from the magazines, as I said. You never
heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not, nobody has
that ever I came across.”
“From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have.”
“I really don’t know, but this is what was in my mind. It happened at my
private school thirty-odd years ago, and I haven’t any explanation of it.
“The school I mean was near London. It was established in a large and fairly
old house— a great white building with very fine grounds about it; there were
large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many of the older gardens in the
Thames valley, and ancient elms in the three or four fields which we used for
our games. I think probably it was quite an attractive place, but boys seldom
allow that their schools possess any tolerable features.
“I came to the school in a September, soon after the year 1870; and among the
boys who arrived on the same day was one whom I took to: a Highland boy,
whom I will call McLeod. I needn’t spend time in describing him: the main
thing is that I got to know him very well. He was not an exceptional boy in
any way— not particularly good at books or games— but he suited me.
“The school was a large one: there must have been from 120 to 130 boys
there as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required, and there
were rather frequent changes…
 100: EVE’S DIARY
by Mark Twain

SATURDAY−I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday. That is

as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a day-before-yesterday I
was not there when it happened, or I should remember it. It could be, of
course, that it did happen, and that I was not noticing. Very well; I will be
very watchful now, and if any day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a
note of it. It will be best to start right and not let the record get confused, for
some instinct tells me that these details are going to be important to the
historian some day. For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an
experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an
experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I
AM−an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I think the
rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I think the rest of it has its
share in the matter. Is my position assured, or do I have to watch it and take
care of it? The latter, perhaps. Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance is
the price of supremacy. [That is a good phrase, I think, for one so young.]
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of finishing up
yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition, and some of the
plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that the aspects were quite
distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art should not be subjected to haste;
and this majestic new world is indeed a most noble and beautiful work. And
certainly marvelously near to being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of
the time. There are too many stars in some places and not enough in others,
but that can be remedied presently, no doubt. The moon got loose last night,
and slid down and fell out of the scheme−a very great loss; it breaks my heart
to think of it. There isn’t another thing among the ornaments and decorations
that is comparable to it for beauty and finish. It should have been fastened
better. If we can only get it back again−
But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides, whoever gets it
will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself. I believe I can be honest
in all other matters, but I already begin to realize that the core and center of
my nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and that it
would not be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to another person
and that person didn’t know I had it. I could give up a moon that I found in
the daytime, because I should be afraid someone was looking; but if I found it
in the dark, I am sure I should find some kind of an excuse for not saying
anything about it. For I do love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I
wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I should never get tired
lying on the moss-bank and looking up at them.
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I suppose I
never can. You would be surprised to find how far off they are, for they do not
look it. When they first showed, last night, I tried to knock some down with a
pole, but it didn’t reach, which astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all
tired out, but I never got one. It was because…
 Additional Resources

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 Excerpted from

BECOMING HUMAN
by Eliza Green

Copyright © December 17, 2013 by Eliza Green

Reprinted by permission of Eliza Green

In the heart of New London, Bill Taggart sat alone in Cantaloupe
restaurant at a table by the window. Feeling exhausted after a long day, he
hungrily tucked into his steak and chips. Cantaloupe was his favorite
restaurant and the best New London had to offer. It was not one of the
more affordable establishments on Exilon 5, which used real, not
replicated, ingredients to make its old-fashioned fare. Since the World
Government—his bosses and the biggest powerhouse on Earth—was
picking up the tab, he made sure to indulge as often as possible. The World
Government, an organization made up of the world’s twelve leaders, had
been set up after the collapse of the United Nations in 2078.
Bill picked up his coffee mug—his fourth refill in the restaurant—noticing
the way his hands trembled as the rim neared his lips. The warm liquid
soothed his throat but the caffeine only made his tremors worse. His hands
continued to shake as he returned the black mug to the table and he
quickly interlocked his fingers. He couldn’t blame the caffeine this time;
there was something else on his mind.
He played with his food while he watched the crowds on the streets
outside rudely pushing past each other; never once did they stop to look
around and actually appreciate how lucky they were. Exilon 5—or New
Earth, as the residents had christened it—was their future now. The new
residents should be viewing Exilon 5 as a fresh start, not a reason to
continue with the bad habits of the old world. Conditions were so
dilapidated on Earth that the government was working on ways to transfer
the entire population.
At present, there were not enough cities on Exilon 5 to accommodate
everyone, the numbers standing at just six: New Delhi, London, New York,
Taiyuan, Vienna and Copenhagen. The World Government had strived to
keep the most familiar parts of Earth’s urban centers so that people would
adapt quickly to their new lives. The first batch of transfers had included
doctors, engineers and teachers to help set up industries before the rest of
the population transferred. The government’s extremely ambitious plan, to
move all twenty billion inhabitants of Earth to Exilon 5 over the next
twenty years, was questionable. Currently, there was just a fraction of the
population living on the exoplanet; that was well below expected targets.
If the World Government was serious about transferring all inhabitants of
Earth, then Exilon 5 needed more cities, more housing—more of
everything.
Bill had an ulterior motive for choosing Cantaloupe that day. He touched
his skin that still prickled with the residual energy in the air; the change in
the air was attributable to the static charge the alien race emitted. The
children referred to them as ‘Shadow People’. He knew them by another
name—Indigenes. He’d been waiting a long time to come face-to-face
with one of them—two years to be exact. His role as Investigator for the
World Government’s International Task Force division was a neat cover.
He was using the mission to uncover a personal matter and he wouldn’t
stop until he found out the truth.
He took another sip of coffee. The caffeine jolted his heart into more
feverish action, but its effects weren’t as strong or his heartbeat as fast as
before. He held his hands out in front of him; the tremors were still very
much there. The other patrons watched him warily as if he was on
something, but he was not a city junkie. There were far more dangerous
men than him out there. An old adversary sprung to mind—Larry Hunt
—and he instinctively touched a spot on his shoulder where an old injury
had once been. He would probably agree that the new cities needed to be
policed better, but to his mind, there were other reasons that made it
dangerous to live on Exilon 5. The residents were being fed half-truths
about their new home.
His wife Isla came to mind; the personal matter he wished to uncover. He
fondly recalled her: rosy cheeks, waist-long brown hair, a dimpled smile.
A sudden pain gripped him so tightly and sharply he thought he was
having a heart attack. But it subsided and he kneaded the pain away as he
always did when memories of his happier life became too much. Isla’s
easy-going nature had always been a good fit for Bill’s more cynical side.
With her, life had seemed less complicated, even if it was not. Without her,
he was a shadow of his former self. He owed it to her to continue in his
search.
Isla, I promise you, I won’t give up.
Remembering their life together was difficult for him. He couldn’t recall
the last time he had smiled since she’d disappeared, even though smiling
was a rare enough action for him. Isla, an optimist, had always hated his
pessimistic streak.
‘Turn that frown upside down,’ she had said to him one evening when he
was in one of his moods. Sitting on one end of the sofa with her legs
curled underneath her, she had shot him a look and, fascinated by stories
about life in the twentieth century, turned her attention back to the tome
she was reading on the history of Earth. Strands of her hair fell on the page
she was reading and she dramatically flicked them behind her. She
unfurled her legs and placed her feet on the floor. Then she crossed her
legs in a way that always made them seem longer and more appealing.
On the other end of the sofa, Bill sat in silence. He didn’t react to the first
of the clichés.
‘We’re here for a long time, not a good time.’ Cliché number two usually
snapped him out of it, although not always. ‘The grass is usually greener
on the other side.’
The last one caught his attention. He slowly turned, a smile tugging at the
corners of his mouth. ‘Isn’t it “the grass is always greener”?’
She briefly stuck her tongue out at him. ‘I was just checking to see if you
were listening.’
He laughed, noticing her legs for the first time that evening. ‘It’s hard not
to. Any more anecdotes up your sleeve?’
She uncrossed her legs and slid over to sit directly beside him. She
gathered up the ends of her waist-long hair and tickled his face, giggling
lightly when he squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Not today, but it’s working. I can
already feel the seismic shift.’
Bill failed in his attempt to look angry. Instead, he gazed at her soft face,
and at her fine hair that seemed to tangle at the hint of movement or a
breeze. It had taken her many years to grow it out, and many times he’d
wondered if it was worth the daily maintenance. ‘Have you ever thought
about cutting your hair?’ he said.
‘No. It makes me feel feminine. It’s also where my strength lies, like
Samson,’ she joked, gathering up a bunch of it and studying the split-ends
closely. ‘It’s taken me so long to grow it. I guess it would feel like I had
lost a part of me.’ Isla let go of her hair and swept it behind her. She
settled into the soft sofa back and pulled her feet underneath her, staring at
the imitation fire that never needed stoking.
‘Do they allow you to wear it down for work?’
‘No. That’s why I wear it like this.’ In a moment, she had swept her hair
up into a ponytail and created a swirl on top of her head. She removed a
few pins from her pocket—her ‘emergency supply’—and secured the swirl
into place.
‘That better?’
His face softened into a smile. ‘I thought you didn’t like to wear it up like
that?’
‘I know it bothers you because I leave so many hairs everywhere, so just
think of it as me doing you a favor.’ She winked at him.
He shook his head. ‘I was trying to be subtle.’
‘Not your strong point, love.’
Bill’s good mood shifted to a different plane. ‘Knowing what you do,
would you really want to live out your entire life here, on this planet?
Wouldn’t you prefer to take the easier way out?’
‘Termination?’ Her expression had changed and she stared at him, her
green eyes filled with pity—or disappointment; he hadn’t been entirely
sure. ‘Never! Life is for living. I’m not here to exist and neither are you.
Why would you even consider that?’
Bill shook his head again. ‘Hypothetical, love. Not for me but for others.
Things in general aren’t good here.’
He stood up and walked to the window, his eyes struggling to see anything
of significance in the murky day. It was 3 p.m. and the world outside was
void of life other than human. The forecast was for worse to come. ‘This is
no life for any of us, Isla. Look at where we live now—the planet. Study
the people’s faces. Why exist for this kind of life?’
She joined him and rubbed his back gently, staring out at the congested
landscape that was crammed with tall buildings and a thick grey fog that
never lifted. ‘There’s a better life on Exilon 5, I’ve told you. It’s magical
—what Earth used to look and feel like. Why do you think I read so many
history books? It won’t be long before I travel there on assignment and I
can’t wait.’
He had turned towards her and cupped her face in his hands. ‘I wish I
could join you.’ The lines on his forehead deepened with every word
spoken.
She held his wrists. ‘Me too, but we’re working to make it safer. It won’t
be long before everyone can live there without a fear of death hanging
over them.’
Bill leaned in and kissed her gently, savoring every moment he had with
her. If he had known that their life together would be cut short, he’d have
kidnapped her and hidden her somewhere safe. The ‘somewhere safe’ had
been a wild concoction in his head, an afterthought after Isla’s
disappearance, or death—he still wasn’t sure. He was still looking for the
truth. He would have given anything to spend the rest of his life on Exilon
5 with Isla. In his mind’s eye, he could see her standing in the middle of
New London, ignoring the rude people around her, grinning at him as her
hair danced in the breeze and tickled the faces of those that got too close.
He would give anything to feel her arms around him again, to see that
smile that was only meant for him.
The smell of fresh bread wafting from Cantaloupe’s kitchen filled his nose
and interrupted Bill’s thoughts. He turned his head to the side and
discreetly thumbed a tear from his face. He shook his head, sat up straight
and tried to remember why he was there. With so many others around him,
he struggled to focus on what mattered.
Cantaloupe restaurant, with its trademark red-and-white checkered cloth-
covered tables, was filled to capacity for the dinnertime rush. He watched
as overly friendly servers took new orders and well-off patrons settled
their bills at the counter with a brief scan of their identity chips. Several
children protested loudly at their parents’ suggestion that they try real
vegetables but calmed down after the promise of ice cream. It chilled him
to think that one or more of the Indigenes had been here in this very
restaurant, so close to children and right under his nose. Normally
nocturnal creatures, the Indigenes’ appearance during daytime hours
marked a change in behavior for them. They were becoming bolder and
riskier in their choices.
Bill knew Cantaloupe intimately, having been there several times, but this
time he studied its layout in minute detail. While…

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 Your Review
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 About the Author
David Butler is a retired mechanical design engineer. He has applied his
conceptual approach for solving design engineering problems to developing a
solution to his lifelong struggle with slow reading. He enjoys sharing this
solution with others not only through this book but with the free online
reading course and online reading tool.
David lives in the scenic mountain forest of Southern California, but
whenever the weather is 75° and sunny, he can usually be found riding his
beach bike along the ocean with his beautiful wife.